


Other Half of My Soul, The

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-20
Updated: 2005-07-20
Packaged: 2019-05-30 22:20:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 117,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15105986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again. Sequel toSonata in C MaJor(by me) andLegingen(a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly)





	1. Other Half of My Soul, The

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 1 ~ 

Be honest, now. If you were hosting a socio-political event in Washington, whom would you prefer as a guest of honor: the First Lady, or the President himself? 

Then you have no idea what you'd be missing. 

First off, the First Lady's schedule is marginally less packed, so your request has a better chance of not being turned down from the outset. Second, hosting her is rather less of a logistics nightmare; other guests and even the serving staff aren't confronted with such an extreme of downright frightening security procedures. Third, no one in the U.S. draws a crowd better than its Chief Executive - people will go to considerable lengths to be in the same room he is, especially since most citizens never get that opportunity. This leads to a veritable guest list explosion, demolishing any hopes you might've had for a relatively simple get-together without hordes of strangers jockeying for a good view. 

And finally, you will have joined the masses who unknowingly pass up one of American's greatest hidden treasures. 

Few indeed would deny that President Bartlet was a fascinating individual and a gifted speaker. The fact that almost every move he made and almost every word he said had to have a political angle didn't deter many people from wanting to meet him if they possibly could. Unfortunately, his office tended to cast a pretty huge shadow over the White House, obscuring the essential contributions of almost everyone else who worked there. 

Including his wife. 

However, just because things are obscured doesn't mean they aren't substantial. You can camouflage a battleship if you try. Not to mention the trifling fact that the current First Lady possessed an engaging personality all her own. 

Abigail Bartlet both cursed and blessed her distant second place in the above-mentioned ranking. It didn't have _that_ much to do with ego - she was too well-grounded in her medical accomplishments, her skill as a good-will ambassador and her marriage of true love to feel threatened in self-esteem. She worked hard to channel her position's admitted influence for the betterment of others, not the endorsement of her own legacy. People didn't fawn over her quite as much as they did her husband, for obvious reasons - _she_ didn't possess the nuclear codes, or the keys to the Treasury. They also were less likely to attempt some kind of crass favor exchange, or to second-guess her motives. 

On the other hand, when her best efforts failed to earn charities the recognition they deserved because the President just happened to say or do something far less important - but far more newsworthy in the public mind... 

The conference room was moderate in size, yet very stylish, and each of its dinner tables boasted a full compliment. The tuxedoed MC stood center stage, before a large ASPCA logo, addressing his attentive audience. 

"I cannot adequately express my gratitude that all of you have come tonight to support us. Each of you is very well known and very busy. You have your own public lives and demands... and yet you're still willing to spare time and lend your voices to those dear friends of ours who have no voice at all." Applause. 

"And now, it is my great pleasure to present to you our honorary Chairperson. Ladies and gentlemen, the First Lady of the United States." 

The sea of pristine suits and colorful gowns rose together. Lilli Mayes, Chief of Staff in the East Wing of the White House, led the applause as her boss regally mounted to the podium. 

Resplendent in red satin, hair cascading free like a rich chocolate waterfall, Abbey tipped her head to her host in acknowledgment, smiled out over the cheering throng, and waved down their enthusiasm. They re-seated themselves, totally focused upon her. 

"When I arrived here this evening, I couldn't get over the size of the crowd outside. I've seen bigger gatherings around a backyard barbecue." She allowed only a moment of light chuckles. "Now under normal circumstances our host would be positively insulted. But all you headliners know better, just as I do. We've all spent more time in the limelight than we want. Being followed everywhere quickly loses its appeal. It's such a pleasure to enjoy a _quiet_ do for a change. A big round of thanks to Mr. Rooney for arranging a minimum of publicity - at least, until _after_ we've made our getaways." 

The gathered celebrities expressed their whole-hearted endorsement. 

"And thanks also to the Monarch Hotel. I think they honestly expected us to shed all over the furniture." 

Laughter. 

On either side of the stage, two silent and still figures stood with their backs to the wall. Neither applauded. Neither even glanced towards the biggest celebrity of them all. Their heads moved slowly from side to side nonstop, in constant surveillance. Their job was to search, not for support, but for danger. 

One of them looked every bit the fearsome bodyguard he was, tall and undeniably muscular despite his formal attire. His partner, however, did not fit that same mold. Her crown of blazing Irish red was demurely tied back, almost concealing the small radio wire plugged into her left ear. Her moderate-length, long-sleeved, simple black dress was deceptive, allowing more maneuverability than most professional designers would anticipate, for moments of unladylike speed and critical action. And though it appeared to hug her slender form, it perfectly concealed her intense security training and her loaded automatic weapon... as well as the patented Kevlar lining woven into all Secret Service outfits these days. 

Her head shifted a tiny fraction as a voice hissed through the earphone. _"Security check, all units, stand by."_

In the pause following, she shifted her right hand towards a small control fastened inside her left sleeve, then angled her mouth a bit closer to her gown's high collar. Even so, she took care not to drop her guard. 

Abbey had learned, with difficulty, to ignore these people who were there for her exclusive benefit. She smiled into the much larger microphone on the podium. "You know, some pets of past First Families have received more media attention than even the famous faces here tonight!" 

The tinned voice returned. _"Post one."_

The female agent's lips barely moved. "Reilly, post one, check." 

"That's why my family doesn't have one at the moment. We didn't think that moving into the White House was a sufficient reason in itself to adopt. I'm sure someone would have accused us of finding yet another way to entice voters." 

A murmur of amused agreement rippled from the floor. 

The security channel was oblivious to all this. _"Post two."_

Reilly never stopped scanning, as her partner across the stage discretely lifted one hand to rub at his neck and at the same time mutter into his shirt cuff. "Bourque, post two, check." 

"Besides, we don't want to detract from the news coverage of visiting diplomats. Imagine what an international uproar there'd be if the First Puppy developed a snappish temper at just the wrong moment..." 

_"Post three."_

Right outside the side door through which the First Lady would exit in a matter of minutes, scanning the otherwise empty hallway, another male agent transmitted in turn. "Delpero, post three, check." 

"It's simply amazing how much comfort and relaxation a pet can bring to your life. I always treasured that when I was young, and I've missed it a lot in later years. Especially _these_ years, let me tell you!" 

The sun had fully set; brilliant floodlights arced up the stone walls of the Washington Monarch Hotel's handsome exterior. Outside its front door, ten vehicles waited in a straight line on an otherwise-empty street: two sedans, one sport-utility, an ambulance, six DC police motorcycles with their red lights flashing... and a long, sleek black limousine. In Washington stretch-limos are not uncommon at all, but this kind of procession is a dead giveaway of someone _very_ important in the vicinity. 

Those spectators congregated behind the fences on the opposite curb, hoping to glimpse a famous face or two, were not especially numerous or noisy, yet they were watched all the same. One at a time, two more agents addressed their wrists and confirmed their own situations normal even as they kept checking for any suspicious activity. The last pair, one behind the wheel of the parked limousine and the other standing alertly beside it, completed this status evaluation. 

Satisfied that all was well, the two sentries in the conference room redirected their full attention forward. The guest of honor was wrapping up. 

"These days one gets the impression that the ASPCA no longer commands the same respect on a national level that it has in years past. It's as if having pets and advocating animal rights are somehow less in vogue, or something that the 'in' crowd just doesn't do. I don't know where that idea started. The fact that you are all here tonight is a wonderful statement of how important our four-legged or winged friends are to our culture, our society and our hearts. On behalf of humanity's unconditional companions, whether they have fur, feathers or scales, _thank you_." 

The audience rose again in delighted ovation. The MC stepped forward to shake Abbey's hand, grinning from ear to ear. She allowed a few moments for the inevitable flashbulbs to pop, then glided off the stage. Several association members clustered around, too respectful to crowd but too eager not to congratulate her themselves. 

Lilli moved discretely to the First Lady's side, as a good assistant should. Normally at least two inches taller than her petite boss, this evening she wore very low pumps compared to Abbey's famous stilettos, which brought them to about the same height. Her glossy black hair had been gathered into a clip, and her delicate features played down with subtle makeup. All of these appearance points were designed to avoid extra attention... yet who would notice anyone else around the President's wife anyway? Her dress was a quiet swirl of earthen tones; standing together, these two women looked almost like a sunset blazing over a forest landscape. 

Reilly fell in behind them, just close enough to keep her diminutive protectee in sight as she circulated, catching the odd snippet of conversation: "Loved your last film." "You do have a stunning way with sculpture." I've never seen anyone else ride so well." Soon, though, she saw Lilli look over the bobbing heads at her and nod, a deliberate signal. Time to go. 

The female agent nodded back, then confided to her collar again. "We're leaving." 

Every other bodyguard around stiffened to even sharper vigilance. Outside, the limo driver engaged his engine. The police cycle escort almost always kept their bikes running, just in case, but those armored parade floats burned gasoline like nobody's business. Considering the overall security budget, they did try not to waste taxpayers' dollars more than necessary. The crowd's gentle murmur picked up at this sure sign that the First Lady was on her way. 

Another benefit to _not_ being the President was that Abbey didn't have to exit through the kitchen or some equally unprepossessing private route. She and her entourage passed through the beautiful main foyer instead, with its glittering chandeliers and polished oak paneling. However, none but the MC was permitted to accompany her; celebrities or not, everyone else had to wait until the Secret Service said they could leave in turn. 

"Mrs. Bartlet, I don't know _how_ to thank you! You carried the night!" 

Abbey patted his arm. "My pleasure as always, Mr. Rooney. I'm glad I could make it. Now, barring any unexpected rumbles from the White House before midnight, tomorrow's papers should contain a glowing and prominent report about the Society and the significant support it still receives." Her smile was quiet yet confident. "And I gave the President strict instructions to keep it down tonight. We don't want him upstaging you." 

Her host laughed obligingly. 

Pacing at the First Lady's left shoulder, Lilli's grin increased. There was more truth to that wisecrack than one might think. 

Reilly walked two paces in front, ever watchful for what might lie ahead; Bourque marched immediately to the rear, scrutinizing their back trail with equal care. Delpero from post three stayed several strides further behind, creating a comfortable pocket of unimpeded space. 

The spectators outside got a faint hint of movement through the twin glass portals to the front entrance, and jostled each other trying to see better. "They're coming!" 

Two uniformed hotel doormen stood at attention just inside. They waited until this privileged parade got quite close, then bowed together, turned and started to open the tall doors - 

The fire alarm went off. 

Most people recognize that blaring shriek of sound at once, and are conditioned from childhood on how to react. First comes terror; fire is one of the most painful ways to die. Then you remember that almost every alarm at school was a practice drill, totally safe, teaching you to evacuate calmly and providing a welcome break from your lessons. _Then_ you remember that almost every alarm anywhere else was an annoying accident, caused by either a glitch in the sprinkler system or someone microwaving the popcorn too long. When ninety-nine per cent of alarms are false, evacuating each time as a precaution - especially from high-rise offices - tends to become a pointless effort and an inconvenient intrusion into the workday. 

More than anyone else, the Secret Service cannot afford to play the odds. Better those ninety-nine cases where its immediate reaction proves unnecessary, than to hesitate the slightest bit during one episode of true crisis. (And not just fires, of course.) At that dreaded klaxon everyone in the foyer jerked to a halt; it was a perfectly natural human instinct. In the very next second Reilly moved so fast a viewer would have had to slow down the videotape to follow her. She whirled and clamped her left hand around Abbey's right arm. She whipped out a very formidable-looking pistol from a secret pocket by her right hip. She knocked the closer of the two petrified doormen aside with her right elbow. And she shouted one word into her collar microphone: _"Red!"_

Bourque acted just as promptly: producing his weapon, shoving Rooney away and closing in on the First Lady from the other side. But Lilli was already there, locking onto Abbey's left arm herself. While she had no security training of her own, she didn't hesitate to offer what aid she could. Bourque did not object; he just grasped Lilli by _her_ left arm. Delpero likewise raised his automatic as he swept the hall behind them. 

Trapped in the eye of this instant hurricane, Abbey tried to marshal her dignity and her balance - but she knew what was coming. Her smile had vanished; she gathered her strength, eyes narrow and teeth set. _Everything_ from here on would be geared toward her safety, and her safety alone. 

The foyer was very well-lit, better than the exterior. People looking in at night had a clearer view through those front glass panels than anyone looking out. Agents and protectees alike hesitated for one moment more, not about to charge forth blindly... 

Then came the much-hoped-for message: _"Exit alpha clear."_ In unison, Reilly and Bourque slammed the main doors wide open. Four abreast, three women and one man hurried down the short flight of steps and headed for the waiting limo at just less than a flat-out sprint. 

The agents posted outdoors had already assumed their own defensive positions, guns drawn. The gathered public hadn't heard the interior alarm themselves, but they could hardly miss this explosion of urgency. Their baffled and intrigued voices rose into a dull roar as they saw the Secret Service scramble to stuff the First Lady and her companion into the limo as fast as possible without launching them head-first. Reilly crowded right on their heels, the agent riding escort sprang into her own seat, and Bourque slammed the passenger door shut before slamming his hand on the roof to send them off. "Chariot secure!" he shouted. At once "Chariot" squealed tires and pulled out of its place in the motorcade, not about to wait while ten other vehicles caught up to such an accelerated departure schedule. Only four cycles adapted in time, two fore and two aft. In mere seconds they had turned the nearest corner and vanished, the sound of sirens drifting in their wake. 

The various citizens standing behind the fences babbled to each other. Obviously they'd just witnessed something important, but none of them had much clue as to what. With both curiosity and excitement in plentiful quantities, the rumors started to fly at once. The police on street control and the bodyguards left behind did not take any questions, determined to keep them back until there was no possible danger. 

The limo and its stripped-down police escort continued to roar along as though pursued by flames sweeping through the city streets. Sirens and flashing red lights penetrated the tinted, shatterproof glass like a distant dream. Reilly settled into the rear-facing seat, tucked her handgun away, and surveyed the two women across from her. 

"Are you all right, ma'am?" 

Her question was pure procedure. She didn't believe anything had happened during that brief dash - not even a sprained ankle. However, the Secret Service had to plan against every possible contingency at every single moment. Now that they were secure inside this elongated tank, though, and well away from the danger zone, she permitted herself to relax at least a bit. Only the White House itself, and Air Force One, was safer. 

Lilli sat closest to the limo door, straightening her slightly disheveled attire. In silence, she looked to her left. 

Abbey Bartlet had been virtually propelled into the greater protection of the other rear corner. Right now she was lounging casually, to all appearances unruffled, with one arm wedged against the window frame as a prop for her head. 

"Oh, fine," she assured them both, her voice level... but she didn't turn from her view of the rapidly-passing scenery. "Just thoroughly disgusted that such an evening had to end on such a note." 

Reilly tilted her head, shrewdly evaluating, then nodded. "Okay." She gave Lilli the same look - who raised both hands, palms out, to indicate that she also was unharmed - before glancing over one shoulder at the two people up front. "Back to Crown." 

The escorting agent briskly nodded back. "Right." The definition of a _good_ departure for these people, no matter how sudden or frantic, was when they took the First Lady to the White House rather than the nearest hospital. 

Lilli frowned. Her boss still hadn't looked at any of them. "Dr. Bartlet?" 

Something in her voice captured Abbey's attention. Her head rotated, tired resignation written in bold characters across her face. 

"Well, that was certainly one of my more unceremonious leave-takings." She sighed. "Sometimes I just love this life." 

"The price of fame." Her Chief of Staff was trying to ease the hurt of what had so nearly been a perfect event. 

"Which has managed to ruin the mood of the entire evening. So much for the triumph of the ASPCA. This kind of publicity they don't need." 

Reilly pressed a finger against her radio earpiece, and her eyes lost their focus as she listened closely for official instructions. 

Lilli shrugged. "Look on the bright side: they'll definitely get into the papers now. Besides, by this point everyone _else_ will have piled outside too." 

"True - but we were the ones parked in the fire lane." Abbey used both hands to tuck her hair back into place. "And whether it's a false alarm or a real blaze, the fire trucks will probably be there by now. Just as well that we got out. They'll have enough congestion with the celeb watchers gawking." She shook her head ruefully, gazing back out into the night. "What do you bet it was just someone smoking in the washroom?" 

Her close colleague and close friend grinned. "Maybe the Secret Service equipment overloaded their electronic circuits." 

Reilly sat up straighter - _not_ because she had just been handed the blame for this whole incident, even in jest. She still compressed her earphone, and she was scowling. 

"Something's wrong. Two agents in the motorcade were -" 

An automatic pistol clicked audibly and ominously right behind her, its muzzle touching the back of her neck. She solidified at once. 

Lilli gasped and recoiled, pressing into her corner, eyes wide in shock. Of all places where they _should_ be safe - 

Abbey reacted a fraction slower, clutching instantly at every iota of her self-control. She'd heard enough in that single heartbeat to know exactly what she would find. By the time she came full about, her features had already firmed into a mask of cold anger. 

The woman in the front right seat gave new meaning to that popular phrase "riding shotgun." She had twisted about to face the stunned trio in the back... and her index finger curled around the trigger of that weapon in an obscene parody of a caress. 

"How about option three - a _diversion_?" She smiled, but there was no humor in it. Just pure triumph. 

This somewhat hurried ride home, in one of the safest vehicles ever designed, had abruptly metamorphosed into the absolute worst-case scenario for the entire United States government: an assault on the First Lady. 

Well, no matter _what_ happened from here on in, the ASPCA would definitely be back-benched in the papers tomorrow. 


	2. Other Half of My Soul, The 2

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 2 ~ 

The sleek limousine never swerved from its official course. The woman up front knelt on her seat, covering the rear section with a pistol that looked absurdly large in her petite hands. The man behind the wheel didn't even glance at her, or behind him, and gave no sign at all that anything untoward had occurred. Thus the team lines were drawn, three to two - or more realistically, in terms of weapons present, _two_ to one. Not in favor of the good guys. 

Secret Service procedure had performed its job perfectly - and in so doing played straight into kidnappers' hands. Fleeing from the illusion of one danger, the First Lady and her two companions had in fact brought a far greater threat right along with them. 

Directly outside, not more than twelve yards away, rode four police officers who couldn't possibly be plants as well; who were escorting them at high speed towards the certain protection of the White House; who would fight at once to defend the limo's authorized passengers if they even suspected trouble; who were totally oblivious of that trouble in this moment and would remain so, because there was no way to inform them. 

The doors to this rolling strongbox automatically locked for transit. No one inside could break out and attempt a desperate dive to the pavement, never mind their current velocity. The windows, body and tires were as impregnable as human technology knew how to build. No one outside could break _in_ , whether they wanted to harm the occupants or _help_ them. 

Lilli Mayes sat like a statue, as far from that gun as she could get, her face a picture-perfect rendition of terrified disbelief. Anyone who works around a public figure - let alone a member of the First Family - must accept that there is always _some_ risk. Still, the human mind cannot operate in a constant state of apprehension... so you reassure yourself that, with the help of the Secret Service, nothing will ever actually happen. Certainly not _this!_

Special Agent Reilly's expression was fighting Irish mad. Her left hand continued to hover in the air beside her head, careful not to move - yet. Her other hand rested near her right hip, very close to that hidden pocket in her dress where she had just secured her own firearm, so confident that she wouldn't need it _inside_ their transportation. She met the eye of the woman she intended to protect, with her life if need be. Which was becoming more of a certainty with each frozen second: that gun barrel rested against the base of her skull. 

Too amazed and furious as yet to feel afraid, Abbey Bartlet knew what her bodyguard (obviously the only _genuine_ bodyguard present after all) had in mind, no matter how hopeless. In one more moment Reilly would spin to her right, swinging her arm up to knock that weapon aside, and then bring her own pistol to bear. The Secret Service operatives were trained to handle moments like this. However, assuming her own head didn't explode into bloody fragments first, a diverted bullet had a more than even chance of hitting Lilli instead. 

She'd have slightly better odds of success if she spun in the opposite direction, leading with her left and following with her gun hand - but that she would never do, for fear of knocking the gun-sights towards the President's wife. Better to fail and die than risk that. 

"Colleen." With a single word and a firm look, the First Lady advised her not to try anything. Not when the odds were so unfavorable. 

The subtext was equally crystal: _We need you alive. And I don't want to see you die._

The unknown woman up front gave a sarcastic little laugh. "That's right, Colleen. Be a good girl." Her leveled automatic never twitched, convincing all three that she would shoot at the slightest provocation. 

All three also shared another grim thought: their abductors must have already killed tonight - twice, at least. The original agents assigned to "Chariot" duty would not have let this happen except over their dead bodies, literally. Right now Colleen Reilly presented the next obvious risk factor to the success of this operation. It would be only sensible to remove her _now._

All three waited, agonizingly, for the slight compression of that trigger - 

"Cabin lights." 

The driver flipped a switch on the dash, doubling the interior illumination. Very little of the night beyond penetrated that well-smoked, ultra-thick glass. 

Now one doesn't need much light to kill a person at such close range. Why -? 

"You." The pistol-wielder threw a sharp glance at the captive whose name she had not yet heard. 

Lilli blanched even further. Abbey's breath hissed softly between her teeth. Reilly made a huge effort not to try her luck; the barrel still brushed her hair. 

"I want you to take Colleen's gun, and give it to me. _Slowly_." 

The East Wing Chief of Staff hesitated, for more reasons than one. She most definitely did not want to cooperate - yet if she _didn't_ cooperate - or if she made the slightest wrong move _while_ cooperating - 

"Lilli." As before with her agent, the First Lady conveyed a lot in the mere utterance of a name. If they were to survive, they had no choice but to comply. For now. 

"Thank you, _ma'am_ ," their captor sneered. "I was waiting for you to introduce us. Go ahead, Lilli. I don't think anyone else here is suicidal enough to interfere." 

Definitely not; both Abbey and Reilly stayed very still as, with great caution, Lilli eased out of her chair and crouched on the limo's moving floor. She had to fumble to find the pocket in that long dress, and the holster it concealed, but finally she came up with the regulation Secret Service issue, pinching it gingerly by the butt. The administrative White House staff members were hardly trained in weapons usage; she was every bit as scared of the firearm itself as she was of their situation. She exhaled in both relief _and_ regret as she surrendered it. 

"Next, the earphone. Colleen, you can do that yourself." 

Closing her eyes in enraged impotence, Reilly removed the wire and unclipped its receiver, then passed it over her shoulder without looking. She had, of course, been unable to transmit an SOS covertly; now she was deaf to possible Secret Service instructions as well. 

"And now, Colleen, on the floor." 

All three frowned in frank confusion at such an unexpected command. But they weren't given time to puzzle it out. 

"Oh, come, it's not _that_ dirty." The muzzle jabbed her in the nape. " _Now_." 

"All right." It was hardly the nonexistent dirt in this pristine vehicle to which Reilly objected. She lowered herself onto her right side, long dress and all, pillowed her head with her right arm in an absurd illusion of comfort - and confirmed that from such a position she could do nothing at all. In fact, she could also _see_ nothing... except her two fellow prisoners. 

Abbey looked down at her with sympathy, then back up. That automatic was now aimed at _her_. 

She reined in her emotions with all her strength, and forced herself to look past its black maw to the face beyond - a face the First Lady was rapidly growing to detest. 

Both kidnappers wore basic suits like almost all other agents, including what must be dummy earphones of their own. However, the odds against lawbreakers actually infiltrating the Secret Service itself were astronomical. No, these two had somehow eliminated the original driver and escort and taken their places. That fire alarm must have been arranged, so that such a violent body switch would go unnoticed in the sudden surge of excitement. Now they were all sealed inside a vehicle reinforced with state-of-the-art defensive plating, which would protect the abductees and the abductors alike. 

Interestingly, the woman appeared to be in charge. Rather unusual. 

She smiled again, as though this were the most pleasant of gatherings. "Very good. Now, I suggest that you all sit back and enjoy the ride." She reached for a firm handhold near her own door. The gun still didn't waver. " _Go_." 

" _Gone_." The driver yanked the steering wheel savagely to port and stomped on the brake at the same time. 

The huge limousine swapped ends with a vicious jerk, swung into the lane normally reserved for oncoming traffic, and screeched rubber until its tires smoked. This violent one-eighty jammed Lilli into her corner and almost tossed Abbey flat across the back seat. Before they could quite come to a stop, the driver lunged for the accelerator and everyone was flung towards the trunk. His boss somehow managed to maintain her aim. Reilly wedged her back against the rear-facing seat and her feet against the forward-facing seat in an attempt to keep from rolling helplessly all over the spacious floor. 

The two lead police cycles, already committed to their route forward and all but deafened by their own sirens, didn't notice this break in ranks before the communications channel reported it, and lost a lot of distance and time reacting. The two following bikes wheeled around more promptly and laid in a pursuit course at once. Whether they believed the Secret Service had yet to inform them of a sudden change in plans, or whether they realized that something was mad wrong with "Chariot" itself, they weren't about to let it out of their sight. The first assumption would be a just-discovered medical emergency - but why wasn't it all over the radios? 

Righting herself, Abbey darted a despairing glance out the tinted windows. She actually caught one brief yet unmistakable glimpse of the White House, shining silver-gold in the hostile night - her home. Her source of security. _So close_ , yet now drawing away... And their starting point was even more removed, where the rest of her Secret Service detail lingered in ignorance of her plight. 

"Take your right," the leader instructed, still not looking away from her three very unwilling passengers. None of them had much to hold onto, but they got the idea and tried to brace themselves. 

In another moment the limo shrieked to starboard - straight for a pair of DC cruisers blocking general traffic access to this good-sized intersection. The First Lady's own heavily-built, heavily-armored security vehicle was now turned into a lethal weapon itself, smashing into the squad cars at the point where their front fenders almost met, slamming them aside and effectively removing them from the chase - never mind any harm meted out to the officers seated inside them or standing _beside_ them. 

"For God's sake, be careful!" Abbey couldn't prevent herself from bursting out in anger at such reckless driving. "You're going to -" 

"Quiet," the woman snapped coldly. The trailing cycles had yet to give up. "Hit it," she instructed her partner. 

In a flash Abbey guessed what they had in mind. "Don't!" 

The driver stood on the brake and brought the limo to a shockingly-abrupt halt. Those two cycles had no possible chance to swerve in time; they both collided against the rear bumper, _hard_. Their riders went cart-wheeling through the night air. 

The limo was already moving forward again, undamaged, and unconcerned about where those two airborne officers finally landed. Abbey strained for a glimpse, horrified at what must be an appalling list of injuries in their wake by now. 

Alone at last, "Chariot" took the next corner almost on two wheels, and commenced to wind through the residential area at a speed no conscientious citizen would ever risk. The former lead cycles, every police officer in DC, the Secret Service and the whole United States Army would descend upon this section of town within minutes. 

"Good work. Keep it up." The leader of what was so far a very successful capital crime didn't release her handhold, plainly expecting more of the same irresponsible maneuvers. She also preserved that steady gun, and that chilly smile. The emotions clearly simmering in the back seat, intense yet impotent, only fed her own satisfaction. 

"We've got a few minutes of grace before anyone can hope to locate us. Ladies, you are going to remove all of your jewelry, please. Watches, bracelets, rings, the lot. Let's go." 

Still flat on her side, Reilly swore softly and reached for her earrings. Abbey raised an eyebrow in morbid humor at such language in her presence, yet followed suit. So did Lilli, before unfastening the ornate clip holding her hair in place. All three likewise wore wristwatches and rings. They divested themselves, trying not to rush or to _look_ rushed, as the limo continued weaving a complicated back trail, always heading steadily away. 

Any neighborhood resident who spotted them would of course wonder at this wild driving demonstration - by a stretch-limo, no less - but unless a police car just happened to be on patrol around here right now... 

"Hand them over." 

Colleen passed her items to Lilli, who then accepted the same from her boss, and stretched forward to drop them into a small cloth bag in the ringleader's grip. 

There was a deadly pause. "Mrs. Bartlet. You really should learn to take orders better." 

In the resulting charged silence, Abbey folded her hands in her lap, left hand on top, in an air of quiet defiance. Her dark eyes returned that threatening glower with equal force. "If you think I'm going to be parted from my engagement and wedding rings," she ground out softly, "think again. I can't get them off without breaking my finger - and _you_ won't get them off without killing me first." 

That did seem a fairly safe gamble, since her life had to be the reason behind all of this. Either way, the First Lady sounded absolutely set on standing by her words. That gold triple band on her left ring finger gleamed in the low interior light, the handsome solitaire winking... a pledge from a President. 

"Oh, really? Don't think I'm afraid to take you up on that." The female kidnapper's eyes glinted in return, an unwholesome light. "But let's just check things out first." She leaned into her doorframe for balance and produced a small electronic device, ever careful to keep her gun hand level. The sensor buzzed quietly as she pointed it at each of her prisoners, then at their personal belongings. 

However, when she also directed it towards the limo dashboard, _then_ it beeped. 

"Damn!" The driver slammed his hand onto the steering wheel in fury, just before he swung around another block. "They bugged the whole car!" 

"No surprise - it's only logical." His boss sighed. "Too bad - I do like the way these things are built. Still, they're a bit conspicuous." She put the instrument away. "But at least there's no accompanying signal from our guests themselves. That's the important thing." She glanced at their fast-changing surroundings. "Okay, let's ditch and switch." 

"Gotcha." This time the limo lined out in a straight run. 

The trio in the back exchanged nervous glances; events were coming to a head. Reilly still made no attempt to resist, but her expression indicated an outraged readiness for just about anything. Lilli kept blinking, still caught between fear and total denial that this nightmare could have developed in the first place. Abbey held herself very still and collected, refusing to grant her abductors the satisfaction of seeing her less than in control, no matter how she actually felt or what might happen next. 

This pair had definitely planned long and well, as if that hadn't already been established. The limo swept onto a side street with a few small office buildings and a single house. The avenue was deserted at this hour, the office windows dark. The house's garage door swung open as they approached. In mere seconds their easily identifiable vehicle had pulled inside, and the door came down, hiding them from the entire world. 

For the moment, at least. That precautionary beacon still existed, transmitting away... 

"All right, girls, time to change flights." The leader seemed to get a perverse pleasure out of addressing the First Lady and her companions like children. 

Reilly started to push herself upwards. 

"Ah-ah, Colleen. Hold that pose." 

Scowling even more deeply than before, she obeyed. What _now_? 

Without waiting for further instructions, the driver shut down the engine and climbed out, closing his door behind him. 

His boss did _not_ exit. "I'm afraid, Colleen, that you won't be joining us. We have other plans for you at the moment." 

The trio in the back felt their hearts drop together. That wonderfully ominous statement could not possibly mean anything except - 

Reilly clenched every muscle. Apparently they intended to remove her threat from the equation after all. If asked, she would prefer to die fighting a hopeless battle than tamely await execution - so long as she herself didn't endanger the First Lady in the process. If it came down to _that_ , she'd rather die quietly after all. 

Even though a plea would hardly be expected to accomplish much, Abbey was more than willing to try for the benefit of others. "Please, there's no need to -" 

The leader's smirk broadened even more. "Oh, relax." She reached down beside her and lifted a small silver canister. "And I do mean _relax_." She flipped a switch on its top, then tossed it onto the back floor. 

It began spewing thick gray smoke. 

_Gas!_ All three women went rigid - if it were possible, more scared than ever. 

For the first time, Reilly obeyed her instincts instead of her training and made one frantic attempt to get away from those forbidding clouds - but she was too close to their pressurized source. Both Abbey and Lilli saw her stiffen almost at once and then collapse, face pressed uncomfortably into the carpet. 

Infuriated by this kind of treatment to anyone, let alone a colleague - and a person who, despite the demands of her ultra-risky job, had become a friend - the First Lady threw a black look forward. Their captor had by now fitted a small oxygen mask over her face. Somehow, that didn't hide her sneer. The automatic still held its bead, and no doubt would remain so until all three captives were beyond all resistance. 

What guarantee did any of them have of ever waking up again? It was highly improbable that the smoke would kill, since Abbey's value at least depended upon her remaining alive a while yet... but that failed to provide a whole lot of reassurance right now. They didn't exactly have control over their lives prior to _this_ awful development - yet while unconscious they wouldn't even _know_ what was happening to them, much less be able to fight it. 

Lilli stared at the fast-rising plumes in growing panic. As a mere staff member, her own chances wouldn't be much better than Reilly's in the end. "Ma'am -" The best she could manage was a squeak of terror. 

Abbey caught her hand. "Take it easy," she advised, her voice low and as soothing as possible despite her own spiraling fright. "We might as well make ourselves comfortable." She paused, before adding with a conviction she _wanted_ to feel, " _I'll see you later._ " 

After a long moment, her Chief of Staff swallowed tightly and nodded. Hope was the one thing they had left. The vapor thickened, its touch seductively gentle. She tried not to breathe, and almost hyperventilated instead as a result... then gave up in resignation, made a sincere attempt to settle into place before she fell over, and squeezed her eyes shut. Yet she did not let go of her boss's hand. 

Bare seconds later, Abbey watched helplessly as her Chief of Staff's visage slackened into emptiness, her head lolled sideways, and her grip sagged open. 

_Two down, one to go._

The First Lady did not try to resist the inevitable. Better gas than bullets any day. She locked eyes with her masked enemy, set her features with determination, and silently promised that there would be a reckoning for the deeds done this day. Even as the smoke rose between them, and her vision began to blur, she stood by that vow. 

_We won't give in... won't give in... won't give... won't..._

* * *

Few buildings in Washington could rival the beauty of the White House at night. Its snowy pillars gleamed in the floodlights. Strategic tree groves on all sides enhanced the sense of elegant symmetry; they also screened the offices in the East and West Wings, while leaving the nation's premier museum and ultimate symbol of power in full public view. Between official chambers for state occasions and unassuming cubbyholes where the real work got done, display and privacy went hand in hand. 

As a rule the real House-work consisted of how to run a government and a nation - not how to personally protect one of its prime residents. 

"No way. _No way._ " 

"Impossible!" 

"This can't be happening." 

"You're kidding, right? Tell me you're kidding." 

"It's a nightmare!" 

"I do _not_ believe it." 

Leo McGarry stood on the carpet of the Oval Office and confronted this explosive reaction by the President's Senior Staff. 

"It's confirmed. Lillianfield has signed on." 

Josh Lyman flopped back in his seat on one of the two sofas and threw up both hands. "Oh, you gotta love how this city works. He missed his big shot at the White House Chief of Staff, so in punishment they offer him the chance to take out the President instead!" 

"Well, Babish did say that the more Bartlet-haters on the grand jury, the better for us," Sam Seaborn commented, scrounging for something - anything - with a positive spin. He sat on Josh's left. "I'd say they've made a good start." 

"Babish is on the money." CJ Cregg lounged across from both men. "Lillianfield's still answering questions about how he got hold of Leo's file." 

She did not look at the Chief of Staff himself, in an effort to spare him at least some embarrassment. Everyone else followed her lead. Leo's lips tightened, both in discomfort at the memory and in gratitude at the gesture. 

The Press Secretary pressed her point. "He broke the law on that one. Anything he produces at this inquisition will be automatically suspect." 

"Then why did they appoint him?" Toby Ziegler asked quietly, drawing all eyes. He stood towards the rear, his body oriented a few degrees aside... as though he didn't quite want to join in this depressing conversation - or didn't want to inflict his natural pessimism upon his fellow staffers. Or both. "They must've figured that out for themselves." 

Leo nodded gravely. "They've got their reasons, and we won't like them." 

Sam frowned. "Lillianfield's going to make this very personal, but that alone can work for us. It almost sounds like the Republicans are sabotaging their own efforts. You think they're _that_ convinced the President will lose the next election?" 

Josh stared at his best friend. "What - so convinced that they'll let an opportunity like this slip by? Get real. We're talking a _triple_ -whammy here! First there's the grand jury. Then there's the impeachment thing. Then the President still has to get the party nomination - and _then_ he has to face the whole nation in 2002!" 

"That's four items," Toby corrected automatically. "Not three." 

Josh glared back. "Fine. A _quadruple_ -whammy. You satisfied? Bottom line is, they're gonna keep coming at us with everything they've got, one process after another. This will be like a war of attrition - and it's not just a matter of who gives up first, either. The sooner they can bring us down, the better it'll look for them. Might as well tidy up the election in advance. The taxpayers will appreciate that a lot." 

"Boy, Josh, you just really picked me up there." CJ rubbed a hand across her forehead. 

"I don't see any point in sugarcoating things," he retorted. "We're under a state of siege. Get used to it." 

"Well, everyone knows how well we do when the odds are against us," Sam piped up brightly. 

He looked around, but no one reflected his smile back, which died quickly as a result. 

"Here's another cheery thought," Toby offered in the low, measured tone that he used to impart critical information. "We've haven't even really started to defend ourselves yet, and we're already sick to death of the whole business. Even if they manage to bungle _everything_ , this witch-hunt is going to be front and center in the news for months. Imagine how tired the average citizen will be of hearing about it by the time it finally ends, regardless of which way it ends. The Republican Party will practically endorse the President's campaign themselves; between the legal history and the bad publicity, he'll be that much easier to beat. One more safeguard for them, in case all their other efforts fall through." 

For a moment no one had any counter to that disturbingly astute observation. 

The sound of a leather folder being slapped shut, loudly, yanked all five heads around fast. 

Jed Bartlet stood behind his desk, tall and dark and grim. Until this moment he had not objected to the unusual and uncomfortable situation of the President being regulated to third person reference while he was present in the room. In fact, he'd appeared thus far to be ignoring them in turn. Clearly, though, not a word had escaped. Now he raised his head and studied these closest staff members over the rims of his reading glasses. 

"You know, I appreciate the realistic approach as much as the next guy. Is there anything else someone would like to add, just so that we all know exactly what we're up against?" 

One by one, they met his stern look... and then glanced despondently away. 

"Well, thank you for that rousing vote of confidence." He sounded decidedly tired himself, no doubt from entertaining similar unhappy thoughts as long or longer, but his sarcasm still had bite. 

The people seated or standing before him had proven their loyalty, their dedication and their positive talent for this kind of work countless times in the past. Ever since they first learned of their leader's medical condition, a condition not disclosed to the public before the last federal election, _or to them_ , they'd run the full gauntlet from sorrow, betrayal, rage and uncertainty to a new trust and a fresh determination. Not one of them had so much as hinted at giving up. Yet neither could they pretend that the future for them all had never looked so bleak. 

Their Chief Executive seemed to be the only one unaware of any impending miasma of doom. Or perhaps instead he chose to just ignore its existence. 

"We're still going to get through this, sir." Leo injected real conviction into his voice somehow. 

"Damned right we will." Bartlet straightened himself another notch. "It's gonna take more than a bunch of constitutional lawyers and opportunistic politicians to stop me from running." 

The back door to the Oval Office blew open with a crash. "Mr. President!" 

Everyone whirled. Ron Butterfield, coordinator of White House security, strode in at a pace few others could match. Crisis rode his shoulders like a thundercloud. At least six Secret Service agents quick-marched right on his heels. 

Josh and Sam bolted upright together, mouths open. Toby stepped back, out of the way of these ominous invaders, and watched apprehensively as they passed him by. CJ also rose from her seat, alarm flooding her features. This had to be an emergency, and a huge one. 

Leo evaluated the mood in a splintered heartbeat, and turned to the man behind the desk. 

Bartlet had stiffened, bracing himself for the worst. Without looking away, he dropped the suddenly-unimportant portfolio onto his blotter and removed his spectacles. His expression drew taut; his brows drew down. His head rotated a bit to the right, as if wanting to deny this unknown crisis out of hand - but his eyes did not leave the men bearing down on him... and their bright blue depths couldn't hide a surge of barely-restrained dread. 

Ron charged straight across the carpet Seal, braked hard in front of the President of the United States, and blurted out one word. 

"Regina." 


	3. Other Half of My Soul, The 3

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 3 ~ 

"My office. Now." 

The four senior staffers did not question Leo's order at all. As one person, they silently turned and practically fled from this historic oval chamber, the miasma of shocking news that had swept in like a cyclone to engulf it - and that first, vivid glimpse of pure horror on their leader's face. 

Toby brought up the rear, closing the door behind them. He just stood there, his hand on the knob, his eyes on the floor. 

"My God. The First Lady." 

The other three were motionless, scattered about this room like some absurd pantomime... positively reeling from the awful implications. 

"Something's happened to her." Sam was usually first among these four to state the obvious. In this case, he had simply voiced what none of his friends could bring themselves to put into words - as though to do so made it even worse. 

CJ shook her head slowly. "No. Something _is_ happening to her." 

"And it's a security matter," Josh whispered. 

Which could mean only one thing, and they all knew it. The glances they traded spoke volumes of feeling that went way past trepidation, or even fear. 

Since 1906 the primary function of the Secret Service has been to guarantee personal protection for diplomats and American citizens in ultra high-risk positions. They have earned their reputation as the finest bodyguards in human history. Considering the number of enemies a man develops the instant he's elected President of the United States, their record, though by no means perfect, is excellent. The envy of the world. 

However, there have always been people who hold no sanctity for freedom or even life; who are quite willing to die _or_ to kill to get their way; who delight in torturing others, through physical _or_ mental pain. And all too often, the mere threat of injury to one's family is more traumatic than genuine injury to oneself. That is part of the price for being a sentient race. 

These four were known for political astuteness; they instantly grasped all the constitutional ramifications. They were also personally close to their President; they easily anticipated all the emotional torment that had already begun. 

And of his family, they knew his wife the best. 

"It can't be true. It just can't!" 

"This is supposed to be impossible." 

"Hell, we thought we had a nightmare _before_ -" 

"Tell me this isn't happening." 

_"It is."_

They spun in unison, as Leo entered and closed the door again with a sharp click of terrible gravity. 

He didn't glance at any of them until he'd crossed his office, stopped behind his desk, and planted both hands on its surface, looking in desperate need of the support. 

After a long moment, his head lifted. A quartet of anxiety-riddled faces waited, frantic for information, yet shrinking from it at the same time. 

He spoke softly, which somehow made the news even more awful. "The First Lady's limo has been hijacked. Right now we have no idea where she is." 

The words seemed to shatter across the floor like broken glass. Their worst suppositions had been confirmed. 

Other than heads and faces, no one moved. An observer might think that they didn't dare waste any energy on bodily motion when it could all go to the brain instead, and be channeled towards the solution of a national cataclysm. 

In less than one minute, they had swung from worry about political survival to worry about _physical_ survival. In such an elemental equation, all other factors paled by comparison. 

"How is he?" CJ asked first, her voice so gentle that it almost disguised the overpowering urgency of such a simple question. 

There could be no possible doubt as to whom she referred. And Leo was his oldest friend; he would know. 

The Chief of Staff heaved a massive sigh. "Give him a little while. I called Charlie in, and Ron's still there. They'll fetch us as soon as they have more info. Which should only be another minute or two." 

The staffers exchanged anxious looks again, not missing how their boss had dodged the business end of that loaded question. 

Josh plunked down into the nearest chair as if the scenario playing out in his mind had robbed him of strength, elbows on knees, eyes wide and face pale. "Someone's gonna try to wring some kind of political concession out of him." 

"He can't negotiate," Sam reminded them, not that they needed the reminder - each had already recalled that well-known federal policy on dealing with terrorism in its far-too-numerous forms. "God, not even for his wife!" the Deputy Director of Communications added, in a tone of helpless anguish that echoed through every heart present. 

"This could kill him." 

Four heads jerked around. The sudden silence rang and trembled. 

Toby did not rescind his quiet, brutally blunt statement. He just stood there, facing the wall... the wall opposite the door back into the Oval Office. 

No one challenged him. The President's abiding love for his wife was known to all. So, too, was the President's somewhat precarious health. 

Leo looked down, gathering his own violently-churning thoughts. "I don't want to debate tactics in front of him. Not unless he insists." 

His colleagues re-focused, almost glad for the change in topic, however slight. 

"Right now we are going to concentrate on damage control. If we can do _anything_ to make this the least bit easier for him..." 

They nodded together, in ironclad concurrence. 

Sam ran a hand through his short dark hair and started to pace, groping for inspiration. "I don't suppose there's much chance of keeping things under wraps. This will be hell for him as is; if he doesn't have to deal with the public reaction, at least - " 

"For-get it," CJ told him curtly. "You think _no one_ saw the First Lady's limo take off on its escort? Whatever happened was hardly underground; we're talking full public view here! When the First Family goes _anywhere_ , people tend to notice." 

"But we don't want to give the kidnappers any extra press if we can help it!" Sam's pacing accelerated. 

Josh slumped even deeper in his seat with a groan. "Like we've got a choice? All it'll take is one reporter tracking down one police officer. How long before someone else demands _proof_ that the First Lady is safe at home?" 

"Plus, the abductors will make a public statement." Toby stayed near the back of the room, hands in pockets, not looking at anyone. He had a real talent for conveying a huge amount of data in an economy of words... and for projecting a dark cloud of depression. 

"So don't play it calm!" Sam insisted. "Rally the people! You think they're content to just watch their TVs and see how it all turns out? You think they don't like her even more than they like him? The Service and the police can't search every building in DC; hell, the _army_ can't! Let's get the people involved! Somebody has to see something!" 

"Oh, won't the kidnappers just love _that_ ," Josh sniped back. 

Leo broke up the infighting. "This'll be all over the airwaves well within the hour, regardless of what we do. Containment is not an issue." 

"The Press Corps still needs that hour to congregate," CJ pointed out. She stopped there, but her whole attitude radiated a clear concern about a familiar subject. 

Leo didn't avoid the issue this time. "By then we'll have the majority of the details. We'll know what to report, and what _not_ to report." 

She nodded slowly. Deliberately lying to the press (and thus to the people) was not her favorite pastime, but it sure beat having the truth hidden from her so that she ended up lying to them anyway. 

Toby shifted, still studying his feet. That method of non-communication didn't mask his feelings much at all, though. He spoke through gritted teeth. "God knows what they'll demand in exchange for her life - but it doesn't matter if it's the Colonel's secret recipe." 

Josh enumerated the unenviable options. "So, three choices: cave in, stand firm... or use force." He tried to sound logical and detached, keeping the personal angle at arm's length for better clarity of thought - and didn't fool any of them. But he forced himself to push ahead as a political advisor should. "Regardless of which he chooses, the public fallout -" 

"Screw that!" Sam almost shouted. "The people love her! If anything happens to her..." 

"Don't say it," CJ pleaded. Or ordered, depending upon how much of an edge one read into her tone. 

Leo pressed onward, very eager himself to abandon that train of thought. "The big question for us right now is: how do we buy time for the President and the Secret Service without _looking_ like we're buying time?" 

Sam braked, processing this new challenge at light-speed. "Whoever these nutcases are, they have to be watching the news. If we even pretend to carry on business as usual, or if the President gives the slightest impression that he doesn't intend to comply to their demands - _what will they do?_ " 

"On the other hand," Toby interposed grimly, as though it were his task tonight to be as pessimistic as possible, "if we admit to the turmoil that everyone will expect the President to be in, it'll weaken the entire country." 

"You think he cares about that right now?" Sam demanded hotly. 

"He has to care!" The snap in Toby's voice startled them all. "He doesn't have any choice in the matter!" 

"He's a human being!" 

"He's a _President_." 

"He's both." Leo's sharp statement brought this debate to an end. "And therein hangs a tale. We won't be able to help him in many ways over the next while - not directly. But whatever happens, we will do our jobs as best as we humanly can, and keep this nation functioning, so that the President has the fewest possible distractions and the fewest decisions to make. Got it?" 

Nods all round; of course none of them had ever intended to do otherwise. 

"Damn," Josh muttered. "This is gonna be hideous for him." He gazed at that closed door, as though he could see through it to their leader beyond. "Bad enough to worry about the First Lady's life; what about _his_ life? He was floored by the flu once. How can his health hold up under _this_?" 

The Chief of Staff hesitated, his features haunted... but under the intense inspection of these four close colleagues he didn't try to deny the truth, no matter how unpleasant. 

"I guess we're going to find out." 

"His health or his _sanity_ ," Sam countered, uncharacteristically morose. 

Even Toby turned that time. 

"Leo..." CJ began reluctantly, choosing her words with great care, "the President and the First Lady have had some - disagreements of late." 

He paused again, before admitting that obvious fact with a short nod. For three full months now, just about everyone had noticed the strange chill in that long-standing visible warmth between the First Couple. Almost no one knew why, and no one had dared to ask. 

The odds were excellent that the President's best friend did know, and from his closed expression he didn't intend to discuss it. But CJ had something in mind other than prying into what _should_ be a private domestic dispute. 

"Had they worked it out yet?" she asked, very softly. 

For two strained heartbeats, Leo didn't move - then his eyes lowered in silence. Which only confirmed the Press Secretary's suspicions. She turned away in misery from this added blow that her perceptiveness had now revealed to them all. No matter what the cause of their conflict might be, Jed and Abbey Bartlet's love for each other was never in doubt. But they hadn't resolved that conflict prior to this life-and-death scenario. Now, would they ever get another chance to do so? Or would the President carry for the rest of his life the memory of him and his wife parting in bitterness - for the very last time? 

"Don't bring it up," Leo finally said, his voice roughened by his own sense of profound sorrow. "The very last thing he'll want now is sympathy." 

The tormented expressions lined up before him promised compliance. None of them wanted to add one iota to their leader's horrendous burden. 

Someone knocked on the door linking this office to the _Oval_ Office. 

All five straightened at once. 

Being closest, Sam opened it. 

One of the black-suited agents on "Eagle" detail stepped in. "Mr. McGarry?" 

It wasn't really a question. The initial security report had arrived. The period of initial guesswork had ended. 

Leo headed that way in silence. As one, the others fell into step. 

The agent raised a barring hand, bringing them to a stop. "Everyone else, wait here." 

Four stunned expressions preceded a veritable eruption. 

" _Aw_ , no." 

"Not on your life." 

"We're his closest advisors, for God's sake!" 

"If you think we're gonna be left out of this -" 

Leo raised his own hand, cutting off the vociferous protest behind him. Not many ever attempted to argue with the Secret Service - but his granite look never wavered, daring this guy to deny the Presidential staff their unalienable right. "They're in." 

In the next calculating pause genuine battle threatened, on the verge of a full outbreak... and then the agent nodded. On rare occasions, they could be almost human. 

Breathing a bit slower in relief that none of them would be excluded, then a bit faster in anticipation of what they were about to hear, the five marched past him. 

As they entered the next-door chamber, that utterly unmistakable seat of power, the quintet automatically looked around for their Chief Executive. They always did; it's a normal action when you walk into someone else's office, much less _this_ office. But he wasn't seated at his desk, or pacing around, or occupying one of the patterned armchairs he often favored. Or, for that matter, prostrate on a couch as they had secretly feared. 

All five braked in no small confusion; he had to be here _someplace_. Ron towered alone in the room's center; he must have evicted the rest of his task force. Charlie Young lingered near the opposite wall, youthful features shadowed beyond all credit to his natural skin color. 

He glanced at them, then returned his somber gaze to the right. One by one, the Senior Staff followed that silent gesture. 

Their leader stood before one of the tall windows facing the South Lawn. Absolutely motionless. His back to the room, his hands pocketed, his spine ramrod stiff. His vision, doubtless, fastened on something far beyond mortal sight. His silhouette almost faded into the darkness just outside, as if no light would brighten his soul ever again. 

They studied him for some seconds, twitching with empathy. None could see his expression, and were almost glad of that fact. All guessed at the conflagration in his heart... a pain no one else present could hope to truly comprehend. 

Leo flinched as this pain hit him like a physical slap. He leaned in that direction, actually took a step - then stopped. He dearly wanted to comfort his old friend, but that was not the role his President needed him to play right now. He'd only just said a few seconds ago that Jed Bartlet would not welcome even the best-intentioned sympathizers. It required a huge effort, but Leo made himself turn away. 

"Ron?" 

The Special Agent in Charge of the White House detail of the Secret Service nodded. He held a red file folder of preliminary reports, but did not refer to them. Already their contents must have been branded into his brain: a litany of failure. 

"We've confirmed that the victims of this abduction are the First Lady, her Chief of Staff Lilli Mayes, and Special Agent Colleen Reilly." 

All of them knew Lilli, through association and in passing. All likewise knew Colleen, if only casually... from when she had been assigned to protect CJ last December. 

The Press Secretary's sharp inhalation drew six pairs of eyes her way. Suddenly they all remembered that _other_ abduction. 

Ron nodded in double regret. "We now know what took place, and more information is coming in all the time." 

The Senior Staff inched closer... away from the solitary figure of their Commander-in-Chief. He gave no sign that anyone had spoken. 

"Just as Mrs. Bartlet was about to leave the Monarch Hotel after her engagement this evening, the fire alarm rang. She was immediately evacuated to her car. We've since determined that someone infiltrated the hotel's computer system and set off the alarm remotely, as a diversionary tactic. The two agents assigned to 'Chariot' had confirmed secure status less than five minutes earlier. For any hijacking to take place, they'd be the ones who had to go. We're figuring that they were attacked the moment after the alarm sounded. Even with extensive training, most people will still freeze for one second at least, and then turn in the direction the alarm comes from." 

Ron's flat tone made no excuse for that human instinct. His elite security corps had been caught out. Screaming about who deserved the blame would serve no purpose now. 

"Agents Reilly and Bourque got the First Lady and Mrs. Mayes out the front door and secure exactly as per procedure. Reilly went with them; Bourque sent them off. He's confirmed that there was a woman riding escort, wearing a standard suit and earphone. It wasn't until the car pulled away that he remembered Reilly had originally been the only woman on duty tonight. When he checked it out, he found the bodies of the two escorting agents dumped in the shadows where the limo had been parked. Stabbed, for silence." 

Sam shivered, looking physically ill. 

"The street was well-lit, but the assailants would have needed only a few moments to eliminate their two targets and take their places. From the initial alarm to the car taking off, barely twelve seconds elapsed. Everyone was intent on getting Mrs. Bartlet safely away. In a security breach, twelve seconds simply aren't enough to notice two dark shapes lying motionless on the ground off to one side, or two faces supposedly on your side that aren't absolutely familiar. And as soon as the vehicle doors closed, they were all untouchable - after that, every minute that the illusion survived was pure bonus." 

"How the hell did they manage to just walk up to the limo in the first place?" Josh exploded. He could always be expected to react with anger. "Where were the police?" 

Ron's glower, a stern mask over what had to be both terrible guilt and deadly rage, grew even more dangerous. "The local police forces are there to augment our arrangements. They are not in the habit of questioning someone who looks very much like one of our operatives, and who acts like he or she knows exactly what to do and where to be." That made sense; the Service reputation was truly formidable, something the DC police knew best of all. "On our details, every agent has to know every other agent assigned, as a precaution against just this sort of infiltration. But we can't expect the same from countless uniforms everywhere we go. The impostors blended in well enough not to be challenged in those few moments between when they approached the limo and when the alarm went off." 

From the unyielding set to Ron's lower jaw, everybody got the impression that such a weakness would be addressed much more stringently. One sure couldn't say that the Service did not learn from its mistakes, and learn _fast_. 

Josh subsided; he certainly did not want that rage directed at him. 

"Once away, they continued until they were more than halfway to the White House, and then swung off Pennsylvania and turned onto 18th Street. Damaging two cruisers and causing two cycles to crash in the process, before vanishing into the city just north of here." 

"Casualties?" Leo asked quietly. 

This time Ron sighed. "The two dead agents, two cruiser officers with minor injuries, and two cycle officers serious." 

And all in a vain effort to protect the First Lady. Almost everyone looked at the President. He remained before his window, unmoving, to all appearances completely unaware of anything else but his own private purgatory. 

"The limo itself would have been relatively unharmed despite these impacts, so the people inside should have escaped any _collision_ injury." 

Every mind instantly asked the same silent question: what about _other_ kinds of injury? What about _weapons_? 

Had anybody glanced aside at just this moment, they might have seen a shudder pass through the frame of the man who resolutely refused to turn. 

Toby ran a palm up his forehead. He'd always followed Service procedure closely - in particular since he'd had a hand in circumventing it once before. With disastrous results. "Those modified tanks all have homing beacons, don't they?" 

Ron nodded, one short motion. "Yes. And we traced it." 

Instantly everyone swung back at him. 

Well, _almost_ everyone... although how the President resisted that urge was a wonder. 

"It was abandoned in the garage of a private home in Bloomington. We triangulated on the signal, scouted the perimeter and then smashed our way inside. The house is deserted. We're checking the ownership and lease records." 

"Like _that'll_ do a lot of good," Sam grumbled. He must've been thinking of TV cop shows or the like, where such an effort almost never obtained results. 

Ron scowled down from both his six-foot-four height and his positively scary position around here, and Sam shut up. The Service was doing its level best - which was very good indeed, and a standard that no one else in the world could match. 

"We'll comb the entire building. Even the most careful criminals leave clues behind." He paused. "In this case, they left Agent Reilly." 

Every other pair of eyes widened, anticipating the next piece of dreadful news - 

"In the car. Unconscious, but alive." 

Every other pair of lungs expelled an _un_ anticipated gasp of relief, CJ's the deepest of all. Toby moved a couple of slow, cautious steps closer to her, hands in pockets and gaze lowered, until his shoulder just brushed hers. No more. She glanced his way in gratitude. 

"She's been drugged. Meaning that almost certainly the other passengers were, too." 

The glass of the Oval Office windows created a natural mirror at night; Jed Bartlet's reflection tightened even further, into a savage snarl. 

"They also left a message on the back seat." 

Fists clenched on all sides. At last, the explanation as to why at least two people chose to risk their freedom and their lives, in the twisted belief that they had a legitimate right to endanger the life of another. This message would declare, in stark terms, exactly what financial or political value had been assigned to the spouse of the most powerful man in the world. 

Amazingly, the cold aura of Ron's fearsome career dimmed before a moment of very human compassion. 

"It's addressed to you, Mr. President." 

They all rotated... yet no sign came from that rigid posture. 

Finally, Ron looked at Leo as his only other source of decision - 

_"Read it."_

That voice was barely recognizable; a maelstrom of emotion had almost completely transformed it. 

They all rotated again - but still their leader didn't move one inch. However, at least he wasn't tuning them out quite as completely as they'd believed. 

Looking a lot less self-assured than anyone here had ever seen him before, Ron slowly opened the file folder. 

> "To the FORMER President Bartlet: 
> 
> "Let this stand as a declaration of total condemnation against the man who has betrayed all that this fair country stands for. 
> 
> "You, sir, have profaned the high office of the United States. Our homeland deserves far better than a leader with a debilitating disease, a condition that will certainly impede his abilities and his judgment. As if that is not sufficient reason in itself, you did not have the grace to inform us, the citizens to whom you are responsible and answerable, of this fact prior to running for office. You have deceived us all in the most criminal fashion. We cannot trust such a weak individual in positions of power, much less SUPREME power. 
> 
> "You have already broadcast your intention to campaign for the Presidency again, in total defiance of common sense, regard for public opinion or the high standards to which our leaders must subscribe. Thus, we the patriots of the people realized that only a protest of the most extreme personal impact would convince you as to the error of your ways. We have taken this duty upon ourselves, despite the personal risk involved, on behalf of the entire nation. 
> 
> "Not just for the well-being of your wife, but for the good of all America, you must vacate your office at once. This will enable the governmental system to prepare for a fair election with honest candidates, and will also reassure the people that such unconscionable behavior by our duly elected representatives is not tolerated. 
> 
> "You will not hear from us again. There is no negotiation on this matter. All we require is a public statement on national TV of your immediate resignation... at which time your wife will be permitted to rejoin you. Not before. 
> 
> "By now you will have been informed of what happened to the security agents who were supposed to convey your wife home. That should convince you of our sincerity. We have left the woman named Colleen alive as a gesture of our trustworthiness as well. The next step, however, is yours. For the sake of the United States, choose wisely. 
> 
> "DEFENDERS OF A STRONG AMERICA" 


	4. Other Half of My Soul, The 4

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 4 ~ 

The silence in the Oval Office was deafening. 

No one dared move or, in some cases, even breathe. 

Every pair of eyes fastened on one man's turned back. 

For this crystal snapshot in time, this moment of undiluted fear, they did not have to think, or act, or fight for self-control... all of which they would be forced to do once the moment passed. Just as the human body feels both hot and cold water more intensely when the bath or the pool is agitated, no one _wanted_ to move. 

The exquisite near-panic was so intense that it almost numbed the mind. 

But they couldn't stay here, trapped and impotent. Life still ticked inexorably onward. Slow or fast, their hearts still beat. Reality still had to be confronted, no matter how awful. 

Leo waited for the President to react, to give the faintest signal of what he wanted them to do next. None came. At last, his Chief of Staff assumed the burden himself. Obviously they could not rely upon their leader to lead them anytime soon. 

None of them blamed their leader in the slightest. None intended to drive him onward, to hold him to his job at such a hideous time. Not now. However, they themselves had no choice but to forge ahead, with or without him. 

Leo nodded at Ron, keeping his voice low yet firm. "Go on." 

The security coordinator compressed his lips at this glaring indication of just who was now in charge... yet he too accepted it. Events simply could not wait, not even for a stricken Commander-in-Chief. 

"The message was run off a typical computer printer, using a standard font. We're checking the style now; at least we can find out what kind of printer it was. It has to be a portable model, since they obviously fine-tuned their message within the last couple of minutes. Unfortunately, they didn't give us a handwriting sample or any fingerprints." 

"They're too sharp for that," Leo muttered. "We're in lock-down here?" 

"Yes, sir, and the rest of the city is following suit. We had the airports and terminals down, the bridges closed, and police at all the main perimeter intersections, almost immediately. The entire Armed Forces are supplementing that as we speak. Between dodging through town and then switching cars, it's unlikely the culprits got clear of DC before the roadblocks started going up. If they didn't manage it within five minutes, then odds are they're still here somewhere." 

For once, most of these people flatly did not believe the word of the United States Secret Service. True, on the Virginia side all vehicles have to cross one of only three bridges to Rosslyn/Arlington, making roadblocks relatively simple. The Maryland side, however, is connected land-wise directly to DC. Closing down the literally _hundreds_ of streets that feed into the Prince George and Montgomery Counties would be well-nigh impossible, much less _fast_ enough to offer much hope for success, even with the scale of manpower to which Ron was referring. Plus, there was an added problem: if the culprits did get to Maryland, they could easily hop on the Beltway and make it into Virginia in no time at all, with no one to catch them in the process... and from that point they could go _anywhere_. 

No, this didn't sound like a professional from the world's elite corps of bodyguards trying as hard as physically possible to secure an entire district in a major security breach. It sounded more like a man playing down just how truly tenuous their situation was - at least in front of the one who would be hurt most by failure. In fact, this didn't sound like the Service at all. 

But, as Josh said earlier, a sugar coating served little good purpose when events are this dire. He said as much again. "This is the nation's capital region. You can't seal it so tight that _someone_ won't slip out!" 

Ron's short mustache bristled with determination and irritation both. "Every outbound vehicle with paneled compartments is being scrutinized, such as trucks and vans. The kidnappers won't dare allow the First Lady to be glimpsed by anyone, so they'll hardly just _walk_ out. We've already begun to sweep the city." 

"Just how many buildings around here are we talking about?" Sam wondered, more to himself. Ron still heard him and threw another frown that way. 

So did Leo; even so, his next words agreed with Sam's dismal impression. "These guys aren't going to panic, or risk being traced through further communications. Even if you can search every building in town, it'll take some time. They know that their silence will be rougher on us in the long run anyway." 

He deliberately used "us," but everyone understood whom he really meant. Knowing what was happening, or what _had_ happened, would be bad enough; knowing _nothing at all_ would be far worse. 

"Exactly." 

Everyone yanked around. Leo's bald statement had finally shattered the silence on another front, as nothing else had managed to do. 

Slowly, for the first time, Jed Bartlet turned. His stance was taut, his expression a hard mask, but he seemed to have himself in hand. 

His eyes - 

Suddenly everyone else in the room acquired a new grasp of that familiar term "freezer burn." Never before had any of them thought that something could be blisteringly cold and searingly hot at the same time. Under the ominous shadow of lowered brows, those famous blue eyes were as frigid as glacial ice, even as they blazed with the concentrated flame of a blowtorch. 

Not even Ron could hold that ultra-intense glare for longer than a heartbeat. 

The President surveyed his closest allies, one by one. Somehow that alone dragged all attention back to him, as surely as if the very force of his presence acted like a huge chunk of magnetic lodestone. 

"I do believe this is a first." His voice remained chillingly level. "These people are not attacking my office. They're not trying to manipulate its supposed international authority. This is a direct and personal attack against _me_." 

Any position of public prominence can attract illegal and violent opposition. But the situation here wasn't due to influence wielded by whatever person happened to be in charge at a given minute. Not just anyone who'd been sworn into high office could fulfill these current demands. Today's events would never have happened if anyone else _except_ Josiah Bartlet stood in this unique chamber. 

Because he had multiple sclerosis, because he hadn't revealed that fact until after he was elected, because he had announced his intention to trust the people and run again, this gang felt justified in threatening his wife. It was his fault, and his fault alone. 

Whatever feelings assaulted him now, they hadn't managed to derail his brilliant mind just yet - or else they just hadn't had enough time to do so. "I imagine it's safe to conclude that these characters started planning this only after the press conference last week. Certainly not before I went public. I don't _think_ I've done anything else to merit this kind of attention." 

Ron embraced the switch to battle mode eagerly. "We agree, sir. Still, they had to have their movements worked out well in advance. Computer-hacking, escape route, hideouts, obtaining whatever knockout substance they used... and driving practice. Our cars are unique, of course, but even an ordinary limo takes some getting used to." 

The President gave one tense nod. His vision wandered to the window again, and some of that fiery light died. 

"You're bringing Zoey here?" 

Leo winced. So did Charlie. The other staff members all found excuses to look away. 

"At once, sir." The chief bodyguard's quiet confirmation sounded surprisingly gentle. 

"Get Eleanor, too. They'll need each other." Bartlet didn't elaborate, but his listeners got the idea that he anticipated not having much time to spare for his daughters - or, conversely, that he'd need their support most of all. "Elizabeth and her family are too far away, else I'd drag them along as well. Beef up their security - _after_ I speak to her." 

A sudden tremor shook his whole body. "God, what do I _say_ to them?" he almost whispered, raising his eyes as though appealing to Heaven for answers that wouldn't come. 

No one spoke, either in suggestion or in encouragement. Words could not possibly encompass the agony of a father, and of a husband. 

"Sir..." Ron had no choice but to press on with business. In fact, it might well be more merciful to draw attention from such acute distress. He waited until the President turned back to him. "All immediate members of your family have been through the Secret Service training program, in anticipation of just such an emergency. How to behave under fire, how to gather information, how to leave clues..." He did his best to sound reassuring. "But above all, how to protect themselves through nonresistance, and be prepared for rescue." 

The faintest glimmer of hope dared to stir. The First Lady wouldn't do anything to anger her captors and risk her well-being. 

Unless she had no other option. 

Ron tactfully didn't mention _that_. 

After a pause, Bartlet nodded again. The blue flare had rekindled, every bit as frightening as before. "And no one's more resourceful than my wife." 

The six staffers present looked more than a little uncomfortable. They hated to see their leader in such mental and emotional upheaval. They did not want to think about what could all too easily happen to a woman they respected a lot. They all felt patently useless right now, to _both_ Bartlets. 

Ron maintained his official reserve. "I promise you, sir, we'll keep you informed every step of -" 

He broke off, left hand flying to the microphone in his ear. 

Everyone solidified. News? 

"Excuse me, Mr. President." Without waiting for permission - this was no time to adhere to protocol - the Special Agent in Charge addressed his shirt cuff. "Butterfield. Go." 

Several seconds elapsed as pulses accelerated painfully. The faint whisper of rustling cloth from one or two shifting position in sheer nervousness seemed uncommonly loud. 

"Sir, Agent Reilly has been revived in Walter Reed. She can now give at least a partial report." 

CJ relaxed a bit. Both Josh and Sam edged nearer in turn, so that she was flanked by all three of her closest and most protective friends. 

Bartlet did _not_ relax. "Let's have it." 

"Yes, sir." As fast as the details came in, Ron relayed them over the line. This method might be a bit slower than a phone call, and far less personal, but it kept things brief and concise. 

"The leader of this faction is a woman." 

Blinks and frowns abounded in response. When was the last time they'd heard of a high-ranking female terrorist? It always seemed to be the men who led these crusades and perpetrated the lion's share of violence. However, that was no guarantee that their new enemy would be any less ruthless. Female leaders have performed atrocities themselves, as well as ordering their followers to do the same. 

No one spoke, afraid to miss a single word. Their shared thoughts, however, echoed through the room. 

"The anesthetic used was in gas form: a pressurized cylinder. Reilly has recovered without any trouble. No long-term effects are expected." 

Almost everyone let out a sigh. Of course, this didn't say anything about what _else_ could happen to the other two prisoners, but it alleviated one concern at least. Besides, the First Lady was valuable as an item of barter only so long as she lived... right? 

"Prior to deployment of the gas, none of them were assaulted in any manner." 

This time it was the President who sighed - although whether in relief or in mounting anxiety no one could tell. 

Reilly had been permitted to live as a gesture of goodwill. The question that now plagued them all was, how much could these kidnappers be believed? They'd already used deadly force once. If they got their way now, they could still kill Abbey to protect themselves... or they could keep her captive indefinitely in an attempt to pry yet more concessions out of a government that will have demonstrated its willingness to bargain. Even if the current President did step down, the value of a life - a famous and publicly beloved life - would not be diminished _that_ much in the eyes of his successor. 

"Reilly only saw two kidnappers: the ones in the car. We have no idea how big their organization is, but there has to be at least one more. Probably several more." 

On the other hand, the more mouths, the more talk. 

But then again, the longer the chain, the greater chance of finding a weak link. 

"Anything else?" Bartlet asked, his voice entirely too soft for safety's sake. 

Ron listened a bit more. "Not from Reilly, sir. However, the videotapes have been delivered from our exterior surveillance. If you'd like to see them?" 

Now that was an unnecessary question. 

* * *

The Oval Office did not have a VCR, or even a TV. The Chief of Staff's office had both. Ron took the first of three labeled hard-shell cases from the agent who had just delivered them, removed the videocassette and inserted it into Leo's player. Leo activated the television, adjusted the picture and reduced the volume. 

The other four Senior Staff members, plus Charlie, hung back, trying to obtain a clear view without obviously jockeying for position. Ron stood to one side, Leo to the other... the President directly in front. 

Ron consulted the counter guide written on the case, then obtained the remote control from Leo and fast-forwarded past the first two uneventful hours. The whir of spinning tape suddenly dominated all ears. 

"For some time now, we've been setting up motion cameras outside any events attended by our protectees. We're not about to rely on the media coverage." He sounded as dispassionate as a classroom lecturer. There had been no chance for him to see this video already, but he must've guessed what it would reveal. "They're positioned to film the vehicles, the crowds and the immediate area for later examination, should anything... happen." 

All eyes watched as the numbers on the VCR display continued to climb. 

"Here we go." He pressed "play." 

Everyone tensed even more as the TV screen leaped to life. 

They all recognized the lower half of the well-lit Monarch Hotel, the motorcade lined up before its main entrance. The long black limousine's port side was fully visible from this angle. Red and white police lights slashed through the night and glanced off building walls and windows. Two dark-suited Secret Service agents stood on the front steps, another beside the limo's passenger door, and a face could just be made out in the driver's seat. 

"First segment is from the camera on the roof across the street." That seemed self-evident, but something about this flat, factual commentary helped tone down the unpleasantness of the events just about to unfold... 

For several seconds nothing seemed to happen. The vehicles didn't move, save for those flashing lights; the humans were only a bit less immobile. Then these viewers noticed the first signs of increased agent vigilance. 

"Reilly would have just radioed that the First Lady was about to leave. The limo driver will be starting his engine now." 

The next minute or two crept by at an excruciatingly slow pace. 

Leo started. "There!" He pointed at what appeared to be another two agents approaching the limo, on the side opposite the hotel, furthest from the other agents around, and closest to the camera. 

The President did not move, his eyes reflecting the glow of the screen. 

The genuine escorting agent, standing protectively by the long vehicle's rear door, responded to a hand motion by one of those newcomers and rounded the trunk to confer - 

In the next moment every agent jerked to attention and spun in the direction of the hotel. 

"Reilly just broadcast the alarm," Ron interpreted quietly. 

Even as he spoke, the three human forms by the limo dropped into its veiling shadow: two amidships, one right beside the driver's window - 

And then the hotel's front doors burst open and four people dashed into view. 

Reilly on the far left. Bourque on the far right. Guns out. And between them... 

Bartlet's lips parted, to reveal grinding teeth. 

More than one staffer behind him mirrored that expression. 

The terrorists had calculated correctly: the alarm and then the rapid exit of the First Lady automatically drew all eyes... even those here, who knew the brutal truth. 

It required only a pair of breaths for the fast-moving quartet to descend the stairs and reach their armored sanctuary. By then, an agent - or a fine impersonation thereof - had emerged from the limo's dark side. Only one, where there had just been _two_... and yes, it appeared to be wearing a feminine-style pantsuit. She quickly opened the passenger door, before claiming the front seat. Abbey, Lilli and Reilly vanished into the back in that order. Bourque slapped the vehicle roof and then stepped back as it swerved sharply out from the curb and roared off. Four police cycles kept pace. They all passed beyond the camera's visual range in seconds. 

The street was not exactly empty, since most of the motorcade remained in place. However, now that the limo no longer blocked some light sources itself, a sharp eye could discern two indistinct shapes on the ground near where that elongated tank had just been, where no such shapes should be... 

Before anyone could comment, Ron stopped the tape. "Our technicians have already enhanced the important footage." He ejected that cassette and inserted the second. 

The enhancement started just before the crisis began, and closed in tight on just the limo. Magnifying the image to such a degree decreased its resolution, but they all could see the two impostors drawing near: definitely a man and a woman. The male went straight for the driver in his seat, while the female decoyed the escorting agent around to leeward... 

Sam shook his head. This wasn't a well-cast drama. This was _real_. 

With no visible or audible warning from this version, the three standing human shapes dropped. The shadows cast by the limo itself obscured much color and action, but not all. Doubtless, right then two knives were performing their deadly work. 

CJ made a sick sound. Josh caught her arm in a steadying grip. 

Since this time there was no distraction from the rest of the cropped-off scene, everyone could see exactly what took place. Almost at once, the woman rose and hurried around the limo's rear to open the door for the fast-arriving First Lady and her companions. The other killer yanked open the driver's door, and an indistinct shape - black cloth against black steel - tumbled to the ground. The poor guy must have lowered his window for greater ease of conversation, only to be stabbed in his seat. 

Toby closed his eyes in eloquent sorrow. 

All ambiguity had been erased. The driver's murderer slid behind the wheel himself. His partner jumped in beside, as Bourque saw Abbey, Lilli and Reilly into the back and then pounded the roof, just like before. The limo departed, locked and secure against any attempt to remove its occupants by force. For all intents and purposes, the abduction was complete. 

In its wake, those two fallen forms didn't look like anything but discarded bundles... which was in fact what they were. No longer living beings in their own right. 

Leo had to turn away. 

The President did not. He had to see it _all_. 

Ron let out a long breath. Certainly he'd be reviewing this many times again in the near future, and from his expression the knowledge held no appeal. Still, he needed to absorb the information and use it. 

"There's one more segment, sir." 

Bartlet waited a long moment, gathering every shred of composure he possessed, before he nodded. 

The second video was replaced by the third. Again Ron checked the accompanying guide and accelerated through to the climax. 

"This camera was in a hotel window, two stories up." That simple statement in itself warned everyone of what they'd be seeing next. 

He finally resumed play, revealing the motorcade from the starboard side, and the thin crowds behind their fences across the street. This recorder had been placed closer to the action than the first; no magnification was required here. 

Once again, those disguised assassins neared the limo, one going to the unsuspecting driver's window while the other lured the escorting agent to his imminent death... 

The viewers could not see the hotel entrance, right below this viewpoint, but they did see the three people standing on the limo's far side suddenly duck out of sight - 

Then, in the foreground, the First Lady and her party appeared, their backs to the camera, hurrying towards the only protection they knew. Around the limo's trunk came the woman who had since been identified as in charge of this entire subterfuge, opening the back door like any courteous and concerned security operative, allowing her targets access to what was about to become their prison... 

Everyone in this office got one good look at Abbey Bartlet, just before she disappeared into the dark interior where she was supposed to be totally safe... 

Then they looked at her husband. 

He stood like a statue, magnetized by that brief, poignant glimpse. 

The tape rolled remorselessly onward, as Bourque slammed the limo door shut, slammed his hand onto its roof, and allowed it to pull away. Taking the First Lady of the United States from them _all_. 

In eerie silence, his features immobile, the President obtained the remote from Ron's grasp and rewound a few dozen frames. The cassette buzzed, its images backpedaling rapidly, almost comically, to just before the limo's departure. Then they abruptly halted, and started forward again at a normal pace. 

Then, by executive command, the entire screen froze. Locking Abbey in suspended animation, her head in perfect profile, her face set in clear and determined lines, unafraid... one foot already in the trap. 

Small white numbers also held motionless on the TV's bottom right corner, marking forever that exact moment in time. 

Was this the last he'd ever see of his wife - alive? 


	5. Other Half of My Soul, The 5

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 5 ~ 

In the pervading silence that cloaked his office, Leo barely managed to bite back a groan at what the security video had just shown them. His own pain did not fall that far short of his best friend's. Not just because of Abbey's increasing danger with every additional minute that passed, not just because of Leo's own thirty-plus years of friendship with her, but also because of the crushing responsibility that now loomed over him. 

It was the President who commanded national authority. 

It was the President's wife who had been abducted - in essence, right before their eyes. 

It was the Chief of Staff's job to get the President, the staff and the nation through this chaos. Somehow. 

He bowed his head, as though shouldering a massive load... then looked up and around. 

Jed Bartlet's entire being remained riveted to that image on the screen: the image of the woman he loved more than his own life. 

Two Secret Service agents stood silently by. One of them coordinated the security for the entire White House, as well as for the President himself. 

The members of the White House Senior Staff, and the President's personal aide, likewise did not move, uncertain what to do next, awaiting orders. 

Then, almost in unison, every other gaze shifted from their Commander-in-Chief, who by all rights should be giving those orders - to his right-hand man. 

Slowly Leo met those gazes, one at a time. The agents were expressionless, no doubt from long practice. The staffers did their best to appear just as composed in the face of compelling fear... but there was a sheen of perspiration on Josh's forehead, and a telltale twitch to Sam's mouth, and a tight pinch around CJ's eyes. Toby tilted his head back and glared down his nose, almost in challenge. Charlie clenched his hands to keep them from trembling. 

Leo exhaled, nodded reluctantly, then stepped away from his leader's side and moved behind his desk. He stayed standing, yet the action broadcast a symbolic acceptance of control. As a rule one did not occupy one's desk in the presence of the President. Even when he entered another person's office, the Chief Executive reigned supreme. 

After a weighted pause and a few uneasy glances, the staff ghosted in the same direction. In truth they didn't want to disturb their real boss with business at such a terrible time... but this move was equally symbolic of a genuine transfer of power. 

Glancing past them, Leo caught Ron's eye once more. No one could say if the bodyguard's stern features showed approval or accusation. Clearly they had now moved beyond information-gathering to decision-making. 

"Okay." The Chief of Staff kept his voice low as he surveyed the apprehensive faces ringing his end of his office. "Let's get things together." 

"I guess I've got enough to brief the press," CJ stated with all the conviction she could manage. This headline had genuinely rattled her as few headlines ever could. Her own extremely personal memories might have had something to do with that... 

"Come see me just before you go on; I'll let you know if anything new is in." 

"You can bet the kidnappers will be watching, too," Josh said darkly. 

"Yeah. Don't get too critical, CJ. It's a bit soon for them to expect a final decision from us, but we can't afford to piss them off." 

"You don't need to tell me that! I'll concentrate on the First Lady as victim. Still, someone's gonna asks about the President -" 

"No comment," Sam offered in a rush. 

"Right," CJ conceded, her tone a bit caustic for all its agreement. "We can parade his private feelings before the public eye _later_." 

Josh shook his head morosely. "It'll do for the start, but sooner or later..." 

"We'll deal with that when _and if_ we have to," Leo decreed, ending the matter. 

Toby shifted, eyes downcast. "Hoynes?" 

The amount of information, the sheer implications invoked by that single name staggered them all. If the President was too overcome by this personal nightmare to uphold his executive duties... 

More than one staffer shot a guilty look behind. Standing here now, planning their next moves without including their leader in the process at all, bordered unnervingly on a serious breach of both etiquette and hierarchy. To bring up the Twenty-fifth Amendment tipped these actions past emergency support towards full-fledged rebellion. 

Leo's visage hardened. He and Toby had been down this path of debate before. The gruff Communications Director could be even more hard-nosed about political policy than Leo at his best. 

Toby didn't have the unique perspective of four decades. That, however, was beside the point. Leo had assumed administrative control on the President's behalf just now, but he was not about to tamper with _political_ command. He wouldn't usurp it himself - and he wouldn't invite the Vice President to do so either. Not unless it became a constitutional necessity. 

The last time the President was indisposed, the Chief of Staff had treaded that fine line a bit too closely for comfort... 

The last time, a case could have been argued for Leo's greater military experience... a convenient excuse which would hardly apply here. 

"Give him some time." And everyone knew the "he" did not refer to John Hoynes. 

The television winked off. 

Everyone stiffened, and those not already facing that way revolved at once. 

For another long moment, Bartlet held still. Then he took a deep breath, and set the remote down with finality. New purpose closed in to visibly shroud him like a mantle. Or a pall. 

"Ron." His voice sounded close to normal - save for a hard note that none could recall hearing before. An unyielding, almost metallic ring. 

"Sir?" The response was crisp and immediate, leaving no doubt in anyone's mind that the Secret Service considered the President to be fully in charge. 

"I want a few minutes to speak with my daughters first, before you take any more of your own measures. I expect they already know something's up, but they should have the news from me." Nothing in his tone reflected the anguish those conversations were sure to generate. 

"Yes, sir." 

"And I want to hear every detail of your activities and your progress from here on in. I don't care _how_ small a detail it may be." 

" _Yes_ , sir." Ron stood at military attention. 

"Good." Now Bartlet revolved in place to confront his closest colleagues. That cold fire had returned to his vision with full strength. 

"Charlie." 

The President's body man started, up to this point all but forgotten. He had stayed well to the rear of the Senior Staff huddle - which therefore put him in the van of the crowd when it about-faced. "Sir?" 

"I've got a suspicion that Zoey is going to need you." On any other occasion over the last year and more, there would have been a flash of parental affection from those blue eyes - but not this night. The icy daggers in the soul prevailed. "You've got my permission to be with her, rather than here with me." Pause. "Because I know _I_ won't be able to stay with her." And everyone heard the regret that time. 

For a heartbeat or two Charlie looked badly torn: between his attraction to the First Daughter and his duty to her father. Who could say which one might need him more? Then he took a single step forward, accepting his mission. "Yes, sir." 

The President gave him a stiff yet favored nod. 

"CJ." 

The Press Secretary stepped forward as well, bracing for her own orders. "Sir?" 

"You're going to be walking a real tightrope; more so than usual. You don't have to protect _me_. You _do_ have to protect this office, though." Pause. "And so do I." 

The unvoiced question was: how could they protect this office without either giving in or abandoning Abbey Bartlet completely? 

"Keep your first briefing short. Just the bare facts. When the time comes for more detail, and a possible address, speak to me." 

A possible address? CJ might have wondered, but she didn't comment aloud. She knew her job; none better. "Yes, sir." 

The President offered another short nod to this woman who also stirred his parental instincts. 

"Sam." 

The Deputy Communications Director stepped forward at once, eager for action. "Sir?" 

"I want you to provide CJ with any help you can on the best wording that won't commit ourselves _or_ get the kidnappers mad. Then draw up a few paragraphs for me along the same lines. Everyone will be expecting me to say something at some point. We've got to show them that we're still in control, no matter what." Somehow, that last phrase didn't waver. 

Sam squared up proudly. "Yes, sir!" 

The President nodded in brief acknowledgment of such determination. 

"Toby." 

The Director of Communications stepped forward less briskly, yet deliberately, as though the motion had been well thought out and firmly endorsed. "Sir." 

"We're about to be deluged with the opinions of every politician in town. They're _all_ gonna want their say. Now some like to forget that they're here to _advise_ me, not _dictate_ to me. I'm counting on you to remind them. This is not a political equation up for debate. I need them to stick to their own patches; that's where they're the most use to me and to this nation." 

Toby's trademark hangdog features did not change much... and yet those present who knew him best could detect the light of battle, distinct and fierce. "Yes, _sir_." 

The President nodded his total faith in that issue being handled properly. 

"Josh." 

The Deputy Chief of Staff stepped forward in turn, looking ready for just about anything. "Sir?" 

"Speak to the First Lady's staff." If anyone noticed that Bartlet still hadn't actually named his wife since this bomb dropped, no one said so. Perhaps he felt better able to face the horror if he used her title to distance himself from it, even if only a little. "They're going through their own upheaval right now, especially since their Chief of Staff is missing too." How considerate of him to think of that fact when he faced so much personal torture already. "Besides, we could use their help. The more hands, the lighter work." 

Everyone present automatically anticipated a comment on the history behind that popular quotation; it would have been the most natural thing for their trivia-loving boss to discourse at length upon author, origin and any other minutiae he carried around in his sizable brain-attic, a common habit despite his ever-hectic schedule. However, no such mild diversion was forthcoming now. Even he could not be distracted tonight. 

Josh folded his arms and gave his patented smirk. "You got it, sir." 

The President rewarded this brimming self-confidence with yet another articulate nod. 

The slight shifting of these staffers was subtle, yet richly provocative. As each acknowledged their duly elected leader, they moved a bit closer to him, and incidentally a bit further from his second-in-command... in effect, reversing the continental drift of a few moments earlier, and reaffirming their allegiance. Not that said allegiance had actually changed, but the answering symbolism fit perfectly. 

"Leo." 

Now, at last, the White House Chief of Staff stood alone. The illusion of senior support that he'd appeared to gather around himself had seemingly deserted him at the summons of their true leader. 

From his official position, he certainly should not resent this obvious reassertion of total control in the hands to which it belonged. From his expression, he didn't. In fact he appeared the most delighted of them all at such a gratifying resurrection of their Commander-in-Chief's focus and drive. 

Smiling just a bit, Leo stepped sideways and around from behind his desk, joining the other ranks, in essence surrendering all claims to power and declaring his own loyalty. "Yes, Mr. President." 

"I'll talk to Hoynes myself. Later." 

No more needed to be said on that issue. If the Vice President had to be called on the carpet for the slightest question of his own political stance...! 

Leo looked like he wished he could be there to watch. But he just settled for giving his best friend a smart "Yes, sir." Like and yet unlike the others. 

There was no question at all right now about Jed Bartlet's ability to function. Every single one of them rejoiced to see it proven. 

Still, over time, as the hours eroded his wife's chances for survival and the final decision drew ever nearer... 

One and all, they determined to cross that bridge if they came to it. Not before. 

"Now." The President surveyed these people around him, the best political talent in the country. And, let it not be forgotten, his personal friends. "We need a battle plan, and we need it fast. If any of you are secretly expert in stalling kidnappers and just forgot to put it on your résumé, by all means now is the time to confess." His sharp, concentrated vision belied any attempt at humor. 

Brows furrowed in a frantic scramble for ideas. 

As often happened, Sam came up with one first. "How about if you broadcast that you're willing to resign only _after_ the First Lady is safely returned?" Everyone looked at him. "I mean, no one would blame you for lying to a bunch of gangsters." 

"No." One word, immovable, before anyone else could voice a thought. Bartlet left no room for doubt as to his impression of this plan. "That would also mean lying to the people, and I've done that once already. By omission only, I know, but a lie is a lie. Even if the abductors were to believe me, which no sane criminal would do under such circumstances, I still can't follow through on that offer... and let them win." 

No one had any idea what to say to that. 

The President looked down. The flame in his eyes dimmed somewhat before a fresh onslaught of agony. "Letting them win is not much of a deterrent to me right now. In fact, it seems like a damned fair deal. No way is re-election worth _this_." 

Silence slammed down. Worried glances flew around the room. As Chief Executive, he couldn't give in; it would undermine the entire foundation of modern civilization and place governments all over the world at the questionable mercy of gun-wielding maniacs. 

No one dared say so. International politics take on a whole new perspective when the very life of a loved one is at stake. Right now none of the people in this room would be greatly motivated to object if Jed Bartlet decided that the _only_ way to save his wife was to do what policy decreed as unthinkable for this nation: capitulate. 

Anybody could understand, and forgive him. They'd be able to deal with the consequences afterwards, just so long as Abbey got home safely _now_. 

And then he surprised them. He gave himself a small shake, sloughing off the last bit of indecision, and straightened to his full height. His face might have been carved from stone, unflinching, as though all emotions were completely walled off. Almost. 

"I am a husband, but I am also the President of the United States." His voice filled the room, strong and hard. "I will not bow before the threat of terrorism. I will not - I _can_ not - surrender this country to the dictates of violence. And my wife would not want me to, either. She and I have discussed this in the past. I _know_ she's every bit as prepared to make such a sacrifice." 

Those words contained no hint of doubt whatsoever. Still, it required a special core of iron just to say them. For all their firmness, they had all too clearly been dragged out of his heart by the pitiless tongs of duty, one resisting syllable at a time. 

The President didn't move, didn't slump, as if to do so even the slightest bit would be to buckle completely under the implacable pressure of this uncompromising position. The odds were appallingly high that the ultimate sacrifice might be demanded of _both_ Bartlets. By not giving in, he had practically signed the First Lady's death warrant himself. 

That knowledge shone bright and clear in his eyes, a beacon of undiluted pain. 

"All of which means that we have to find her - _fast_. Before her captors realize that they will not get what they want." 

Everyone present shared one stark thought: _Truer words were never spoken..._

None of them wanted to break the sober quiet that descended again. But as before, Ron didn't have much choice. His radio frequency could not possibly tell when was a convenient time to intrude, and when wasn't. 

"Sir?" 

The President breathed carefully a couple of times, testing the limits of his self-control, before he trusted himself to turn. It was far too soon for good news. 

Still, he'd expressly said that he wanted all the details... 

He locked himself in place, and waited to hear. So did everyone else. 

"The prisoners were ordered to remove their jewelry at one point. The kidnappers thought that there might be a transmitter hidden someplace." 

The new intensity of anticipation in his leader's expression gave even this coolly-reserved and ultra-efficient security supervisor pause. 

"We've recovered the items. They were left in the car." 

Anticipation became certainty. Leo glanced aside. Toby faced the wall rather than anyone else. CJ put a hand over her eyes. Sam grimaced, Josh jammed a fist against his forehead, and Charlie just studied his feet. They all understood perfectly. Those personal possessions could have been stolen for their monetary value - or destroyed, either for safety's sake or out of sheer viciousness. Instead, they were left behind to be recovered. The abductors had done that for one reason only: to add yet another element of suffering. 

Bartlet spoke through clenched teeth. "Bring 'em." 

Ron nodded to his leader, then to his subordinate. The other agent, silent and motionless since he'd delivered the videos, went to the door of Leo's office and opened it. Another agent waited right outside, holding a simple metal box perhaps ten inches square by four deep. 

For a moment it took on the straightforward appearance of a mere parcel as it changed hands... but when the door closed and the first agent walked over in the continuing silence, he looked far more like a pallbearer with a chest of ashes. 

He set the box down on the central table, directly in front of the President. 

And in a gesture of frank respect, he stepped back. Even the Secret Service didn't want to press unfeeling regulations upon this situation that much. 

Everyone shared a tense inhalation. Then hinges gave a faint squeak in the dead quiet as Bartlet slowly lifted the container's lid. 

His staffers crept sideways for a glimpse, as unobtrusively as they could, unable to help themselves. But no one came any closer. 

For several endless seconds their leader stared down at the box's unthreatening contents. 

"They've been dusted," Ron offered at last, his voice startlingly soft. Essentially, he had just bestowed permission to touch them. 

As though in a trance, the President reached down and brushed the fingers of his right hand among the simple bits of metal and carbon. Ever so gently moving them around. Shifting them towards one side... or the other. 

If he didn't recognize the object, then it couldn't be hers... 

"You've already given Agent Reilly her own things?" he almost whispered. There were only two watches and two sets of earrings, not three. 

"Yes, sir." 

Finally, Bartlet lifted out a lovely silver chain. Its pendant glinted back at them. 

CJ's breath hissed forth. She had her own unpleasant associations with necklaces. This time it was Sam who touched her arm in an attempt at comfort. 

The President looked past the pendant rather than at it. "Lilli Mayes' husband gave this to her... for no reason at all except that he knew she'd like it." 

More than a few of those present suddenly looked guilty. 

He must have sensed it. Solemnly, he revolved and met each pair of eyes. 

"No matter what hell we end up going through here, I don't want _any_ of us to forget about Lilli, or refer to her only as an anonymous staff member, or give the impression that her life is any less valuable. The fact that she was caught up in this only because she happened to be with a national icon is moot. She deserves every bit as much consideration in her own right. We will _not_ be like our enemies, who assign a price tag to a human being based solely upon his or her social standing." 

That order would not be simple to follow, and everyone knew it. With the First Lady at risk, who had time for a mere administrative employee? That was how the world tended to operate, after all. It was also how terrorists planned their lawless activities for maximum effect. 

It was _not_ how this White House would function. 

Leo answered for them all. "Yes, _sir_." 

Bartlet glanced at him, with a flicker of appreciation at such unquestioned support. Then he looked again at the engraved pendant dangling from his grasp, and appreciation faded into colossal sadness. 

"That's another call I have to make: to Lilli's family. Ron, get their number." 

"Yes, sir." 

Carefully, the President set the necklace back down on its side of the box. He didn't pick up the polished hair clip or anything else beside it. Instead, he reached at last for the other half of the partitioned pile... 

Everyone in the room stood absolutely still and absolutely silent. It felt so rude to watch, and yet none could resist - 

The pearl earrings were typical of Abbey, attractive yet not too glamorous. He held them in his palm for several heartbeats, his eyes misting for the first time. 

The wristwatch was likewise elegant without being ostentatious. He rubbed the flawless crystal, his touch almost a caress, then forced himself to turn it over and read the inscription. The words engraved thereon were totally unnecessary for identification. 

To our beloved Abigail, on your first inauguration, from Mom and Dad. 

Slowly, Bartlet's fist closed around the timepiece as though to keep it safe forever - or else to crush it and all the torment it represented. 

"Damn _IT_!" 

Almost everyone jumped. 

"How the hell do I explain this to her _parents_? They entrusted me with her safety..." 

Leo reached out at last, and laid a brotherly hand on his best friend's shoulder. 

The President did not look at him. Still, perhaps that mute comradeship helped him regain whatever composure he still had. In the renewed silence he returned that watch to its place, hardly able to stand the sight of it any longer. 

Then, by visible degrees, a storm gathered around his brow. "Ron." 

"Sir?" 

"Where are her rings?" 

At once this inconsistency snapped into sharp focus. Lilli Mayes' matched engagement and wedding rings lay in the box. Abbey Bartlet's did not. 

The rings that resembled the single gold band worn by The Man right here and now. 

Even if Ron himself didn't admit to actual fear at this point, just about everyone else present experienced a chill. And that sudden fury wasn't aimed _their_ way at all. 

The security coordinator faced his leader's rage without flinching. "Mr. President, that is one of two pieces of good news we still have for you. Agent Reilly confirmed that the First Lady refused to part with them." 

Pause. "Well, that's touching to hear." Affection warred against trepidation. "Even so, she knows better than to put up any resistance. I'd rather have her back alive _without_ her rings than not back at all!" 

Ron almost smiled. _Smiled_! "Sir, I can safely say that she had an ulterior motive." 

This time the silence was dangerous. 

The President's eyes condensed into diamond hardness. "A motive _other_ than protecting the symbol of the lifelong pledge I made to her thirty-four years ago?" 

"A _secondary_ motive," Ron amended, showing a better grasp of diplomacy than almost anyone would predict for his profession. "This is top-secret," he added firmly, with a warning glance to the staff members in the background. "Mrs. Bartlet is also wearing a third ring: a special ring given to her by the Secret Service. It looks just like a mate to her others... but it is in fact a state-of-the-art micro-transponder." 

Almost every other jaw dropped open in astonishment. 

Leo recovered first. "She's bugged?" he exclaimed, trying hard not to sound too happy just yet. It was still no guarantee... 

Even so, the odds had taken a dramatic improvement. 

"And just when were you planning to tell _me_ about this?" Bartlet demanded coldly. 

"We launched the experiment only three days ago, sir, after the First Lady returned from her previous trip. Since she was due to travel again next week, we asked her to test the signal strength for us. It's worn inside the other two rings, where it's hardest to get off. We're hoping to plant one on every member of your family, as well as every other person we protect, for just such a case as this." 

The President still glowered, but his anger was fading quickly before the new light of hope. "Well, that explains something. I've hardly seen her since she got back from Toledo, or else I'd have been asking about a strange ring myself." He unconsciously fingered his own simple band, a pledge of love and loyalty in turn. 

Then this fledgling hope sank beneath fresh suspicion. "Wait a minute - you haven't got a signal yet, or else you'd say so. _Why not?_ " 

Ron spoke a bit faster now, eager to explain all before his leader burst something. "This transmitter has been very specifically designed. Most kidnappers of public figures think to test for covert electronic signals, and a steady transmission can't be disguised. We needed to invent a device that can be triggered intermittently by the wearer when it's safe to do so, and be undetectable while it's inactive. We chose a ring for its innocent size, and because it can be reached by the thumb of the same hand; this way the wearer doesn't have to have both hands close together. The tiny nuclear battery is good for at least a year, and any American satellite can trace the unique wavelength. We're fairly certain that the First Lady is still somewhere in DC, so we'll be able to triangulate fast." 

Pause. 

"But she still hasn't signaled," Bartlet growled, relentlessly pressing the point. "Otherwise you wouldn't be standing here now telling me all this." 

Ron hesitated, then sighed - in total contrast to his usual efficient calm. "No, sir. We've received nothing so far... and the transmitter is useless if the wearer is unable to activate it. Such as when unconscious." 

Eyes widened all round as everyone immediately thought of the other likely reason. No one dared voice it aloud - 

\- Except the President himself. 

"Or dead," he said, very softly. 


	6. Other Half of My Soul, The 6

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 6 ~ 

Six White House staff members and two Secret Service operatives watched in stricken silence as their Chief Executive opened the nearest door and slowly, listlessly walked back into the Oval Office. 

Leo glanced at the others present, then flicked his eyes towards the exit leading into the outside corridor. It might have seemed a curt dismissal, yet it also turned them loose to do their jobs. They got the message and headed out together. 

Charlie hesitated uncertainly, since his job required him to be ever on hand. However, it was a safe bet that the President didn't want him around at just this moment. The young aide looked to Leo for direction. 

The Chief of Staff nodded in full understanding. He, too, did not want to abandon their leader to suffer alone. Privacy was one thing; friendship, though, demanded that they help somehow. Besides, there remained the minor detail of genuine anxiety about executive health. 

"Wait here," he instructed quietly, before following in his President's footsteps. 

The short passage between these two premier offices had a door at each end. Leo left the first one open, but closed the second behind him, even as he looked around for - 

The click of the latch was echoed by the crash of an object slamming hard into a nearby window. Leo jerked that way fast. 

Jed Bartlet stood near his desk, back turned, again facing out onto the South Lawn at night. His shoulders were hunched, his head bowed. The edge of his right fist rested against the bulletproof glass; the window-frame still shivered a bit from the force of impact. 

At least it hadn't been an actual missile - but that knowledge brought little solace now. Leo's deeply-graven features shifted from alarm to relief to empathy. 

The far door swung open quickly and a Secret Service agent burst in, gun out, ready to subdue whatever threat had caused that loud report - 

Leo raised a hand at once, silently assuring him that it was a false alarm. The bodyguard paused, gauged the mood in the room, nodded briefly and withdrew. Quiet returned. 

Their Commander-in-Chief didn't react at all. 

One slow step at a time, Leo advanced. Being here now could well be construed as a blatant invasion of one man's solitude and distress during the most horrid ordeal; in another moment that fist might come flying _his_ way. 

He'd run that risk and gladly. This man was his best friend. This man's wife was a friend as well. In fact, they were virtual family. 

He made no sound, coming to a stop at the President's right. Stood at right angles to the window, watching the leader of the free world. 

Bartlet's eyes were closed against the images that haunted his imagination. He probably hadn't heard this cautious approach... but on some instinctive level of perception, that unassuming, familiar and totally comfortable presence registered. 

In the pervasive quiet, his ragged breathing filled the arm's length between them. 

"Abbey and I made a deal." That was the first time he'd said her name all evening. His voice was hoarse and strained, very close to fracturing entirely. "I broke it." He screwed his eyes shut even tighter. _"And look what's happened."_

Leo sighed wearily. Regardless of what he said, it wouldn't help. Yet he felt compelled to try, if only to stave off the awful silence. "No way could anyone have predicted this." 

Even in the depths of his heartache, Bartlet knew that. From the moment he chose to run for this office, he had accepted these risks to what was arguably the most dangerous political role in history. No matter how good the Secret Service tried to be, no matter how many guns they carried and how many precautions they took, no matter how elaborate the alarms and how strong the barriers, sooner or later a truly determined assailant had to get through. 

If he knew for _sure_ that he wouldn't win the next election, Bartlet would not have bothered to run again. But while that election remained the slightest bit in doubt, he felt duty-bound to try, to not give up simply because it looked too hard. A President doesn't surrender... 

If he knew for _sure_ that his MS would progress before he could complete a second term, Bartlet would not subject the Presidency or the nation to such an executive crisis. But until his health did deteriorate, he owed it to himself to do the very best he could with whatever time he had. A man deserves to live... 

If he knew for _sure_ that his wife would never forgive him - or never have the _chance_ to forgive him - for going against their agreement, Bartlet would have walked away from the Oval Office itself, for her. But they'd fought often enough in the past, and always made up afterward, and despite the conflicts and differences of opinion they'd grown even closer. As much as he wanted to keep his word to her, he honestly believed that she would come to understand how he had to stand by his oath to this office even more, whatever the cost might be. A spouse is always there... 

He couldn't have possibly known three years ago that white supremacists would shoot at him and his daughter, or that a naval fleet would be decimated by a hurricane while he listened on the phone, or that his military doctor would be blown out of the sky, or that his best friend's drug rehab history would be made public, or that his best friend's marriage would be destroyed by the burden of running this place, or that his personal secretary would die on her way to see him. Or that his wife would one day be held at gunpoint. The future is not open to mortal eyes. 

The events of this day were not his fault. 

That knowledge did little to ease his heart. He was left with the consequences of his choices, and those of others. He had no other option except to face them all... and, somehow, to act. 

His lips moved, barely forming sound. "To love and protect... for better or for worse... until death do us part..." 

Leo flinched. 

"Every minute that goes by... I'm wondering if she's even still alive." Pause. "I _feel_ that she is - I'm sure I'd know if she isn't - but I can't help fearing the worst." 

Leo couldn't do a thing, except stand there and be a friend. 

At last, Bartlet raised his eyes to the black, star-spangled heavens beyond. 

"Will I _ever_ know what happens to her?" 

Now that question was scary: as though he'd already resigned himself to never seeing her again... to never even finding her body... 

"Will there just be an eternal emptiness? Will the hours become days, then weeks, then months... just _silence_..." 

By sheer force of will, he did not weep. Not yet. No matter how much he hurt. Not until he _knew_. For better, or for worse. 

Leo blinked rapidly, fighting back tears for both of them. 

* * *

The door opened soundlessly, and the Chief of Staff re-entered his office. 

Charlie rose from his seat, dark features revealing even more agitation than before. Leo looked like he'd aged another decade or more since he stepped out on the heels of an anguished President. He moved slowly to his desk and sank down as though at the very end of his strength. Propped his elbows on the blotter, buried his face in his hands, and let out a sigh that bore the weight of the ages. 

Charlie said nothing, loath to intrude on personal thoughts - especially torturous ones. Yet their leader was alone on the other side of that wall, burning at the stake... 

Leo hadn't forgotten. After only this brief pause to acknowledge his own feelings, he looked up. 

"Go on. You won't have to say a thing. Just... be there. Fade into the wallpaper." Pause. "If there's any kind of problem, call me." 

The personal aide to the President nodded. He asked no other duty than this... save one. 

Leo anticipated that second desire, and glanced at his watch. 

"I'll let you know when Zoey gets here." 

Charlie's face cleared a bit, and he flickered a brief grin of shy gratitude. "Thanks." 

Leo's haggard visage lightened a touch in response. He watched the young man walk somewhat cautiously into the next room, wearing his great responsibility like a badge of honor. It was reassuring that someone would always be on hand - just in case things took yet _another_ turn for the worst. 

"Leo." 

The Chief of Staff started in his chair. Josh stood against the far wall, arms folded, uncharacteristically silent until now. 

For whatever reason, clearly he had decided not to follow the party line and leave with his colleagues. That sort of thing _was_ characteristic of him. 

Leo had no time for his deputy's idiosyncrasies right now. "Josh, I don't care what it is. It can wait." 

Josh didn't shift an inch despite this dismissal, even more peremptory than the previous one to the whole group. "How's he bearing up?" 

"How do you _think_?" 

And still he held his ground. "Okay - how are _you_ doing?" 

That simple query stopped Leo in his mental tracks. 

Of all the Senior Staff, Josh knew him best. This young man had a talent for political interpretation, a definite skill for strong-arming the opposition, and a positive genius for getting into trouble. Most people never saw how considerate he could be. Even his closest friends tended to be surprised when that hidden aspect suddenly manifested itself. 

Leo was downright amazed. This entire crisis revolved around the First Family, although Lilli Mayes should not be forgotten in the process. The Chief of Staff had to keep things working backstage, regardless of the chaos up front. Too many others depended on his guidance to spare him any concern as well, to say nothing of how much he relied on his own self-control. He didn't dare take the time to deal with his own feelings; that would only magnify them anyway. 

Josh couldn't be fooled on this. "Look, I know you've known the First Lady pretty much as long as the President has." 

He didn't have to elaborate. Leo's eyes lowered to his desktop, flooding with memories. After a long pause, he nodded. 

"I convinced him to propose to her. I encouraged her to accept. I was their best man. I'm godfather to their first child, and honorary godfather to their _grand_ child." He rubbed his lined brow. "And I convinced him to run. I convinced her to _let_ him run. I..." The litany of blame whispered to a helpless halt. 

Josh rolled his eyes. "Come on, it's not your -" 

"I know!" Leo snapped back. "I said the very same thing to the President not five minutes ago!" He dropped his palms onto his desk, a gesture of defeat. "None of this changes the fact that I still feel like at least part of it _is_ my fault. No matter how illogical that may be." 

Almost against his will, his gaze swung again towards that closed door, and the office beyond it, and the man trapped within it. 

Josh shifted uncomfortably, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Uh..." he stammered, "if you wanna, y'know, talk sometime..." 

At first it seemed that Leo hadn't even heard him. Then, slowly, he turned back. His expression didn't change, but gratitude could still be heard in his soft reply. "Thank you." 

"Okay." Josh moved off that track rather quickly. "I guess you've got a full plate for the next while, huh?" 

His boss was equally glad to leave such a delicate topic as his own strained emotions. " _That's_ putting it mildly. I expect I'll be spending all my time either in security briefings or President-sitting." 

That last term might sound either facetious or insulting, whereas in point of fact it was neither. Josh nodded, taking it in the spirit it had been intended. "Yeah, I figured." He raised his open palms. "Pair of hands for rent, cheap." 

Leo raised a sardonic eyebrow. "What, you're applying for my job?" 

His subordinate actually grinned. "Well, not _officially_ , at any rate. I'm not _that_ crazy." 

The Chief of Staff almost did, too. " _Un_ officially it is, then. I'm gonna remember this offer the _next_ time I'm swamped." He obtained his reading glasses. "A lot of things will be suspended now anyway. I'll get Margaret to ID the rest. You carry whatever you can." 

"Gotcha." 

The conversational well dried up, and silence descended. With no further distraction from the critical issue, Leo turned yet again to that door between them and their besieged commander. 

Josh followed his eye, then rotated back, setting his teeth. 

"Leo... I gotta know." 

His boss hesitated, yet didn't disagree. It wouldn't hurt to talk about this calamity once in a while, with a truly trusted friend. 

"He's doing his damnedest to handle it. So long as there's a chance that she'll be okay, _he_ should be, too." 

Pause. This time Josh didn't have to say anything. 

Leo's next breath was part sigh and more groan. Enough mincing of words. "If anything happens to her, it'll just about destroy him." Another long pause. "On the other hand, if he goes down under this killing burden..." He cringed at the mere thought. "Then even if she _is_ rescued, she won't fare much better." 

Being the First Couple had nothing to do with it. Jed and Abbey Bartlet really were like two halves of a single unified being. 

Finally, Leo looked Josh in the eye. "Bottom line: if one dies -" 

The Deputy Chief of Staff understood perfectly. "So does the other." 

* * *

John Hopkins University is in Baltimore: less than an hour from Washington, by car, at a sane pace, under normal traffic conditions. Considering the emergency this was, and the reputation the Secret Service commanded, and who Eleanor Bartlet happened to be, the trip to her parents' home tonight took barely half that long. 

Flanked fore and aft by black-suited agents, a simple carry-bag thrown over one shoulder in the attitude of a brief visit - or a very fast packing effort - the second of three First Daughters hurried through the White House corridors, ignoring both its priceless treasures and its employees' glances. Her long hair streamed out behind, and the bright interior lighting only accentuated the redness around her eyes. 

Not far ahead, a certain door could finally be seen. Unable to restrain herself any longer, the twenty-five-year-old started to run. Her escorts did not increase their own pace; if she wasn't safe here, she wouldn't be safe anywhere. Besides, even they didn't want to witness the heartbreaking scene to come. 

She tore past the two vacant desks silently standing guard. She slowed before that portal, enough not to slam into it before she could actually get it open... and entered her father's office. 

Three men looked up at once. 

"Ellie!" 

She stopped just inside. Fastened so completely on the sight of him that she didn't even notice anyone else in the room. 

Jed Bartlet rose and circled his desk, radiating both relieved delight and intense pain. Ellie started forward again, her own face a mask of anxiety, each stride swifter than the last. They met in the middle of this historic chamber, arms open wide. 

Leo took no offense at being ignored as he discretely slipped out to his own office. 

Every bit as discreet, Charlie left the same way Ellie had entered, thoughtfully closing that door behind him. 

The President held his middle daughter close. "Thank God you're here." 

She didn't reply, just hugged him a bit harder, choking back sobs as the tears squeezed past her eyelids. 

These two had experienced more than their fair share of conflict; a moment of such affinity was pitifully uncommon. It passed all too soon, and by mutual consent they backed off a bit, that dash of fragile happiness vanishing into the gloom. 

An added factor made this even more poignant: Eleanor had for a long time felt rather closer to her mother than to her father... 

"I'm sorry there was no one else to ride down with you." Jed let his hands rest on her upper arms, also an uncommon gesture in recent years. 

Ellie wiped at the tear-tracks on her face. "It's okay. Anything... new?" But she guessed the answer and was not surprised when he sighed and shook his head. 

"C'mere." He led her to one of the couches. They sat down at right angles to each other, a cushion apart. Awkwardness lingered between them - both from past memory, and from present agony. 

"I guess Zoey's here by now, huh?" On most occasions there would have been just a hint of sibling rivalry in her tone... 

Her father merely nodded. The fact that his youngest child lived in town guaranteed that she'd arrive sooner. He'd been through a very similar scenario with her already. 

"She's really looking forward to seeing you." He paused, glancing away from the hurt in Ellie's deep eyes. "I've also spoken to Liz. She wants you to phone her as soon as you can." 

"I will." Eleanor tried not to sniffle. 

"Hey." His voice was very gentle, very paternal, very worried. "You hanging in there?" 

She struggled to muster even half of a smile. "I'm trying..." 

"Well, you're here with us now. And your mother will be soon, too. You've got the entire United States making sure of that." 

The half-smile finally broke through, as he had hoped. "Yeah." 

Silence. Ellie knew the basic facts by now, and was torn between hearing the rest and just not facing it at all. Of course she couldn't stop thinking about it, but to hash over every horrible aspect... 

Jed clearly didn't trust her quietness. "I mean it, honey. This is not a case of us four waiting for the local police to come up with something. There are over forty million people out there willing to help, and some of them are damned good at helping." 

She nodded at the truth to that fact, but didn't agree aloud, afraid that her voice would crack. How often did kidnappers of _any_ bent let their prisoners go at the end, knowing full well that former prisoners could identify them? 

She threw off this paralyzing thought. "How about _you_?" 

And just like that, a shutter snapped closed behind his eyes, sealing off his emotions from everyone else. Even his family. 

"I'm fine." 

Oh, _sure_ he was. Ellie didn't buy that for a second. "Come on, Dad! You don't need to hide from _us_. I've got a pretty good idea how you must be feeling, so admit it already." 

That barrier thickened another degree or two, not letting her in. "I'm okay. Things are still functioning here -" 

"How can you think about work at a time like this?" she exploded, so suddenly that the walls seemed to shake. 

He didn't back down. "No matter how I feel, the work is still going to be there." Pause. "Besides, it does provide a distraction." 

"Oh, for pity's sake! Even the President is entitled to -" 

"To be with his family," Jed completed. "And I am. I'm here for you, Ellie. So is Zoey. Never doubt it, never forget it, never fail to reassure yourself of it." 

She swallowed. "I won't." 

When was the last time either of them had offered so personal a pledge to the other? How sad that it required a crisis of such magnitude to bury the hatchet... 

He continued, with deceptive calm. "Remember, all of us have been briefed on what to do in a situation like this. Anyway, your mom has always known how to take care of herself." 

Eleanor studied him closely. Even though in a constant state of terror for her mother's survival, she still paused to probe her father's defenses. He had to be on the verge of crumbling away under this hideous pressure, made even worse by the uncompromising dictates of his job. But he stubbornly refused to admit it, or even to speak openly of it... devoted to shoring up _her_ courage instead. 

"I _know_ that. But Dad -" 

He seemed determined not to let her pursue the subject of himself. "Then you also know that if we asked her right now, Mom wouldn't _let_ me give in and trade her life for the lives of others. Both as a doctor, and as a public servant herself." 

"I _know_! But -" 

"And you know that I try not to do anything to get her mad at me." 

Ellie couldn't help it; for just a moment, she smiled. "Oh, I sure do." That smile died fast. "But Dad, really -" 

And he changed topics again. "By the way, I also called your grandparents." 

She hesitated this time. "How are _they_ doing?" 

Jed exhaled. "I'm not entirely sure; they've always been hard to read over the phone. I wish I could bring them here - but they shouldn't even attempt to enter DC while the citywide search is on." 

Eleanor looked away, her face tightening. "They must be devastated." 

Her father grimaced. "Well, you know how proud William's been ever since we moved in here." 

She grinned again. "Oh, yeah. He never gets tired of telling people that his daughter is the First Lady. Almost anyone else would say, 'My son-in-law is the President!'" 

Now Jed flashed a quick smile of his own. "Gosh, thanks. And Ethel didn't take kindly to the news that I was assigning some security to them for the next while, just to be safe." He massaged his forehead, chasing away all humor. "I guess the Service has taken a beating in their eyes as well..." 

Ellie stiffened in her seat, brain churning. 

"Dad, don't tell me they're blaming _you_ for this." 

His failure to meet her eyes now confirmed it. "Oh, man -!" 

Jed shrugged. "Well, I suppose it's more or less an automatic reaction. I did promise to protect her, after all..." 

His daughter's breath hissed out in exasperation. "Yeah, right; like anyone could have predicted this over thirty years ago. Don't _you_ blame you either!" 

The President raised his head, looked at her... and his mouth curved upward. 

"Yes, ma'am. Since you so command, I won't." 

" _Good_." Ellie sat back and folded her arms. Far too often their roles were reversed - and not in play, either. 

This new silence was rather more comfortable. Father and daughter tended to share more noise than peace, no matter what myriad forms peace could take... 

Eleanor glanced around their extraordinary surroundings for the first time, and heaved a sigh. "I'll bet Charlie is invaluable to you right now." 

Jed nodded in total agreement. 

"And to Zoey, too." 

He nodded again, his gaze wandering aside. 

She waited, hoping he'd take the bait. His intense dislike for _her_ boyfriend had added extra fuel to their frequent bickering. If only her choices merited her father's approval as much as those of his other daughters did... 

He said nothing for the longest time, and she resigned herself to being stuck here, comparatively alone, while her sisters had the support of their loves close at hand - 

"You should call him." 

Ellie's lips parted, but no sound came out. Rarely indeed did her father manage to score so decisive a point that it left her literally speechless. 

"What's his name? Stephen?" 

Still dumbfounded, she scrambled to at least nod. 

Jed grunted. "I can't believe I remembered that." He turned, and bestowed upon his daughter an incredibly warm smile. "Seriously, call him as often as you want. My opinion of him aside, if talking to that guy can help you in any way to get through this, then I'll pick up the long-distance tab myself." 

Without any hesitation this time, Eleanor threw herself into her father's arms. 

"Thank you so much," she whispered. 

He stroked her hair. "Hey, the least I can do. Especially since I know _I_ won't be able to spend as much time with you as I'd like." 

"Yeah." They all had no choice but to accept that harsh fact of life. 

Then Ellie sat back again. "But at least you have Leo." 

For no apparent reason, Jed's features dropped. 

His daughter's vision grew sharp. " _Now_ what's wrong?" 

He closed his eyes. "It's just that... Leo's taking a big hit himself. He's known your mom all this time, too." Pause. "He's got way too much on his mind already - including me. I really shouldn't bug him." 

Eleanor shifted. "I see your point. Okay, then, Dad, whom _do_ you have? You need _someone_ to talk to." 

Silence. 

The President glanced past her, through an almost visible haze of sadness, towards a certain closed door. 

"I had Mrs. Landingham. 


	7. Other Half of My Soul, The 7

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 7 ~ 

"Donna!" Josh was shouting for his assistant before he got within visual range of her desk, and incidentally before he could even be sure that she was there. 

She leaped up at the first syllable, scattering papers. "Is it true?" 

He stomped over. "That I just bellowed for you? Yeah; turn up your hearing aid." 

Donna Moss planted hands on hips and glared at him, furious that he'd wisecrack at such a traumatic time. " _No_ \- about the First Lady!" 

All activity in the area stopped dead as every other employee strained to hear. 

Josh rolled his eyes. "Well, the White House grapevine is in fine form today. Not much point in denying whatever it said, since you'll believe it over me any day of the week." He snatched up her purse from the floor by her chair and handed it over. "Come on. You're moving." 

Donna's annoyance mutated at once into disbelief. "...Moving?" 

"Yeah. You know - when you stop sitting at one desk and start sitting at another. Here." He gathered papers and stationary items from her blotter at random, not caring what function they might or might not serve, and stuffed them into an untidy tower on top of the purse in her arms. 

She accepted them, eyes wide, too off-balance to resist. 

"What - am I being fired?" Others might be surprised by the lack of fear in her voice at that option. In fact, she sounded both mildly curious and firmly confident. "'Cause, you know, you couldn't fire me if you tried -" 

"No, you're not being fired." Josh placed his hands on her shoulders and physically turned her around - not roughly, yet firmly - and propelled her ahead of him, towards the hall. "You're not that lucky." 

Once Donna gathered her momentum, her boss let go and took the lead. She struggled to keep up. 

" _Josh_... if you don't tell me what's going on within your next heartbeat, it'll be your _last_ heartbeat!" 

He didn't glance back, breaking a trail through the corridor congestion of frantic junior staff members and far-more-numerous-than-normal security officers. "Just for the record, would you address the Chief of Staff that way?" 

"I always address the _Deputy_ Chief of Staff that way." 

He ducked under a passing employee's raised arm that otherwise would have barred his passage; three feet behind him, Donna almost failed to duplicate the feat. "Well, it's high time you started treating me with more deference anyway. Maybe this will finally do it." 

Genuine shock brought her to a halt. Josh either heard her stop or sensed it; he about-faced at once, took two long strides back, caught her arm and dragged her forward. A couple of items fell through her fingers. "No time for window-shopping. Let's go." 

She let him steer her as though she couldn't see at all, her mind really reeling now. "Has something happened to Leo?" 

"Oh, nothing that a successful resolution to a kidnapping wouldn't cure," Josh assured her calmly, taking a close turn around a corner plant. "Meanwhile, he's stuck with me." 

"Oh. _Whew_. So you're just the _Acting_ Chief of Staff, right?" Then Donna brightened. "Hey - that makes me the Acting _Deputy_!" 

"And the assistant to the Chief of Staff, and the assistant to the _Deputy_ Chief of Staff, and the assistant to the personal secretary of -" 

"Wait a minute!" She dug her heels into the carpet this time. "How on earth can I be the assistant to _myself_?" 

Josh braked, threw up his hands, and went behind her again to provide propulsion. "A little less obstinacy, a little more respect, and I'll show you." 

They entered the next bullpen side by side, the better for Donna to lecture. "You know, it's truly amazing how much mileage one can get out of a simple 'please' and 'thank you' -" 

"Nancy!" 

The occupant of one desk straightened, her hair a curly blonde cascade. 

Josh marched up, forgoing any of the pleasantries his assistant had just advocated. "Grab your essentials. You're needed elsewhere." 

Nancy did not consider it her place to ask the reason why. "Uh, okay." 

Donna watched her scramble for a carry-bag, then shook her head pityingly. 

"Well, another perfectly justified sermon wasted on the uncultured masses. Why did you hand me all this stuff anyway? They're not what _I'd_ call essentials, and they'll probably have nothing to do with my new -" 

"Simple: you're going to be doing more of my work now than ever before." Josh fidgeted, practically on fire to keep moving. In the last hour the atmosphere of the whole White House had picked up an extra, disturbing hum of urgency. 

She sighed. "Like that's anything new. Now, about the First Lady -" 

"Relax. At least you won't have to do _her_ job." 

Nancy reappeared at that moment, ready to go. Josh nodded once and led off again. "Now you see how efficiently some people can pack?" 

Donna made a face at his back. The only reason she didn't throw something more solid was because her arms were too full. 

This time they had only a short distance to go: to the reception area right outside the Oval Office itself. 

Both women stopped on the threshold, wearing twin expressions of dread. 

Josh pointed to Charlie's desk, currently unoccupied. "Donna, sit. I expect you'll have to adjust the chair. Nancy -" 

" _No_." Nancy looked no less than horrified. She didn't even glance at Josh; she just stared at the _other_ empty desk. A desk that had so far remained sacredly vacant. 

Josh exhaled and revolved back around. "Oh, for crying out loud..." It wasn't the whine that he'd have directed at his own long-time assistant, but it came close. 

"No. I'm not sitting in her place." 

Donna agreed at once. "Josh, please don't -" 

He shushed them both. "Okay, listen up. The First Lady is a hostage. The President is going through an emotional hell on earth. This is a state of emergency - but the nation still has to operate. _None_ of us want to see anyone else sitting here... but _we don't have a choice_." 

All three of them turned again to that desk, exactly like mourners at a graveside. 

Josh's standard bravado had long since vanished. "Nancy, you worked closest with Mrs. Landingham. Donna, you've worked closest with me. Here's where the action is. This may be temporary, but it's important. Two heads are better than one. Besides," he added in an automatic reversion to his old self, "it'll take at least two people to do what she always did, anyway." 

A long pause elapsed before either woman moved, but when they did they both nodded. For the good of the country, and for the memory of the woman they so respected, they silently promised to do their very best. 

He let out a huge breath. "Thanks." 

Donna blinked in no small astonishment. "You thanked me. I don't believe it." 

That line returned everything to normal. "What makes you think I was thanking _you_?" He dodged her arm slap. "Okay. I'll be back in a few." 

Josh left reception at a near-trot and headed back to Communications, forging through the constant throngs the way a swimmer fights an ocean swell, his head bobbing up every few seconds for a better view. 

"CJ!" 

The Press Secretary cut right in front of him, a maneuver that on the street would earn her a citation for dangerous driving, and did not slow her own rapid pace one bit. She looked more than a little frazzled, her arms loaded. 

Josh tried again. "CJ -" 

She never honored him with so much as a glance. "First Lady missing. Briefing in ten. Leave me alone." 

Josh got the point, gave up and changed trajectories, passing outside the Communications Director's office. 

Inside that office, Toby had abandoned his desk for the couch, which was so littered with notes that hardly any space remained for him. Sam sat across in the visitor's chair, frantically tapping away on his laptop. 

"We've got two angles here: public strategy, and hidden. Right now any official moves will be solely to draw fire and keep everyone's attention from what we're really doing." Toby moved his pen rapidly across his pad, sketching the outlines of a battle plan. 

"These gangsters will know the Secret Service at least is up to something," Sam pointed out. "Never mind the army." 

"We can't help that. But they don't exactly have free rein to wander the city. They're barricaded indoors just as securely as we are. Their only source of information is the news. That's what we have to control." 

"Right." Sam wiped his sweating brow. "Damn, this is like a military offensive." 

"In more ways than you can imagine," Toby agreed, his low tone an ominous rumble. Pause. "You spoke to CJ?" 

"Yeah, she's got it in hand for this one. The next briefing's the one to watch." 

Toby threw him one dark look, and didn't comment. He didn't have to. 

"I got a list of current affairs from Leo. Any business that can wait, we put off. To next year, if necessary. Everything else, we accelerate. The more crap on the go around here over the next couple of days, the better for all of us." 

Sam frowned. "You're thinking of a diversion?" 

"I'm thinking diversion, _distraction_ , smokescreen, the Constitution, and the perspectives of the public, the politicians and the kidnappers." Toby kept up his jotting without pause. "No point pretending that the President's got anything else on his mind - but at least we can swamp him with good reports on _other_ things." 

"If it's good reports we want him to get, then we'd better shut down now." 

He ignored that wisecrack completely. "Shunt all non-critical appointments on his calendar to Josh, you or me. Not Leo." 

"Great - we get to earmark the troublemakers." Sam's dark eyes lit up, anticipating the punishment he could mete out to such individuals. 

So did Toby's. 

Then, "Um, there is one tiny problem with a smokescreen. You know the saying: where there's smoke -" 

"There's fire. And this place is just like a forest in a drought: one careless spark and we've got a conflagration." Toby's pen flew nonstop, trying to keep up with his rapid thoughts. "We're not about to isolate him - just lighten the cart as much as possible. I don't want the faintest suggestion that he's not up to his responsibilities." 

Sam snorted. "Right - as though _anyone_ would be able to work normally under this kind of pressure." 

"Sadly, most people see the President as other than 'anyone.' Even other than human. Which, if it were true, would preclude this whole dilemma at the source." 

"Hey, that's really true. I'll note it." Sam's fingers danced across his compact keyboard. 

Then, before his boss could grouse about wasted effort in crisis, his head bobbed up again. "You know, there is one good thing to come of this." 

Now Toby looked up, his expression cold. "I'm sure the President will be delighted to hear you say that." 

"Who knows - maybe he will." Sam paused for effect. "No grand jury." 

The Director of Communications turned this idea over a few times. "Which I'm sure will please the kidnappers no end, since a grand jury is part of the _legal_ process to remove a President. Not all that different from what they're doing." 

In the new silence this concept took on enormous proportions. 

He propped a palm under his chin. "This also presents us with a new publicity problem. Or haven't you seen Wag the Dog?" 

Sam's eyes bugged. "Oh, come _on_! I can see _some_ people starting a war to shift embarrassing headlines, but do you think anyone will believe for one moment that the President would put his wife in the slightest danger for _anything_?" 

Toby considered that in turn. "Let us hope and pray that others are just as discerning." His shoulders heaved in a sigh. "One thing about a war: at least you know exactly whom you're supposed to be shooting at, who your enemy is. A clear-cut Us Against Them around here would be a welcome relief." 

Sam nodded, reluctantly. "Except that the price demanded may be higher than we can afford." 

Such as Abbey Bartlet's life - if not Jed Bartlet's as well. 

Right outside, Josh passed by again: in the opposite direction this time, and his hair notably less tidy than before from the constant running around. He headed for his own office... then skidded to a halt at the sight of his assistant's unoccupied desk. 

"Donna - oh, right." He slapped his forehead in remembrance and retraced his steps. 

A tall, feminine figure preceded him. "Hey, CJ!" 

She still didn't bother to glance his way, looking even more frazzled now that her briefing was that much closer. "Go _away_ , Josh. Or else I'll send you before the Press Corps." 

That stopped him cold. "Uh - no." 

"Damn. I was hoping you'd offer to die in my place. Nice display of chivalry there," she ground out, leaving him behind. 

"So I'm not suicidal!" he called after her. Shrugging, he resumed course. 

At least the two women outside the Oval Office had settled into their new positions by now, less afraid of being struck down by the ghost of the former secretary to the President... 

"Donna!" 

She all but ignored him. "Go see Margaret." 

"Okay, I will. Later. In the meantime -" 

She didn't even lift her eyes. " _Margaret_. Right _now_." 

Josh hesitated, picked up on Nancy's spreading grin... then gave a resigned shake of his head and slouched back out into the hall. 

Leo's secretary was ready for him. "Here you go, Josh; the latest installment. Enjoy." The pile of paperwork must have been four inches thick. 

Josh's mouth stalled in the open mode. "You're serious." 

Margaret kept a straight face. "Don't be ridiculous. This is the White House. Of _course_ I'm not serious." 

"Tell Leo he can have his job back anytime." 

"Nah, we're sure we can get a few more miles out of you yet." She extended the package, forcing him to take it. 

He'd just left, showing all the enthusiasm of a galley slave at a yacht race, when Leo arrived from the other direction. 

"Margaret. In here." 

She rose obediently and followed him. "Any progress?" 

"No." He strode behind his desk, slapped his briefing folder onto the blotter, and just stood there in fuming irritation. "I don't know why that surprises me. The whole situation is - what?" He checked his watch. "Sixty-five minutes old? Damn, it feels like a year already. How are we going to get through _hours_ of this?" 

His assistant shifted feet, looking more and more uneasy. She scrambled for something less threatening to discuss. 

"I'm, um, keeping Josh busy." 

Leo raised his head. "Good. Now you can go keep the President busy." 

Margaret actually stepped back. "What?" 

If not for the sheer gravity confronting them all, he might have smiled at her reaction. "Go on. I need to talk to Charlie." 

"But - the President? What do I _say_ to him?" 

"I have absolutely no doubt you'll think of something," he said with the utmost conviction. Few people could chatter the way _this_ woman could. 

She racked her brains desperately. "You made it clear that he doesn't want sympathy. Of course, I want to give it to him anyway. Even though I know he won't welcome it. I'm sure he's doing his best to not even _think_ about it. Still, it must be _some_ comfort in your worst nightmare to know that others are behind you all the way..." 

This time Leo _did_ smile, if only for a moment. "See? I knew you'd come up with it. Now go tell _him_ that." 

Margaret cringed a bit, then took a deep breath, bracing herself. "All right." She turned towards the passage that led into the office next door. _The_ Office. 

And checked once more. "You do have the number of my next of kin, right?" 

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, for God's sake, go!" 

She swallowed, with an effort, and went. 

Sure enough, mere seconds later the President's personal aide emerged. 

Leo sized him up shrewdly. After a single hour, the strain had already begun to show. Somehow, Charlie's dark skin and youthful features served to emphasize rather than shield his multitude of emotions tonight. 

"How is he?" 

That question went a lot deeper than the words could ever convey. 

The young man returned that searching look honestly. "He's quiet. _Too_ quiet. I've never seen him so intense." 

Slowly, Leo nodded, reading all the subtext. His own expression deteriorated. "Yeah." 

Silence. 

"Okay. We're going to have to take some steps here." The Chief of Staff approached, his eyes narrowing. "Now I'm not asking you to go against any order the President gives you directly, got it? But I'm convinced it wouldn't be wise to leave him alone for any length of time. He goes to a meeting, I'll brief the staff that go with him. He goes to the Residence, his daughters are there. I'll spell you off around here." 

Charlie's eyes widened. "You... really think he might crash? Or - worse?" 

For a moment Leo couldn't answer. The unspoken possibility was terrifying. 

"I don't know. Even if there's no news at all, he should be able to take it for awhile yet." He glanced aside, breathing faster at the mental imagery. "Just say I'm paranoid and protective, okay? It's part of my nature." 

After a spell of deliberate contemplation, the young man nodded. "Okay." 

Leo forced himself to relax, at least a little. "Okay. If you need anything, or you think _he_ needs anything, you make sure one of us knows it." 

Again a steady nod. "Right." 

In the next pause, Leo's visage softened. 

"You're the man for the job, Charlie. I appreciate it - and the President does, too. I'm too close to this. And his family..." He sighed. "You know him pretty well. You know he trusts you. But you don't have the _history_. Right now, that's a good thing." 

Charlie squared up a bit more, like a soldier under inspection. "I understand." 

"Good." They shared a look that only two comrades in arms could comprehend. "Oh, and make sure you spend some time with Zoey, too, huh?" 

A deep gratitude illuminated the young aide's dark face. "Thanks." 

Leo offered the faintest grin. "Now go rescue Margaret. I'll see you later." 

Charlie walked in with a quiet confidence. 

Margaret walked out with near-desperate haste. She went straight to the nearest chair and virtually collapsed into it. 

Still standing near his desk, her boss observed this calmly. "You're alive." 

"But the President's _not_." 

He went rigid. She couldn't possibly mean... but what else...? 

She dove into her blazer pocket, pulled out a tissue, and dabbed at the tears she'd somehow hidden from their Chief Executive. Her voice shook. "I mean, he's moving and breathing... but he's not _living_." 

That achingly succinct observation made Leo look more sober than ever. 

* * *

The press briefing was chaos, unadulterated and unrestrained. No reporter felt inclined to let the others speak. CJ stood behind the podium and tried not to shrink backwards, either from the forest of frantically waving hands or from the cacophony of her name being shouted at the top of every set of lungs except her own. 

"Will you let me get a word in edgewise?" she finally demanded, at high pitch herself by now. "Otherwise I'm taking my answers out of here and you can just go without!" 

Things had to be really bad to drive a Press Secretary to _that_ extreme. No political entity could afford to alienate the fourth estate; they depended upon it for survival. However, there was also a line that the media shouldn't cross either. The sharp edge to her words and the bright pinpoints to her eyes actually did convince the corps to calm down... somewhat. 

" _Thank_ you. Now let's see how long we can maintain this, okay? Sally." 

"CJ, the whole DC area is already gridlocked. Bridges are closed, roadblocks are up... there are Army vehicles and armed soldiers everywhere. It looks like we're at _war_. This is the nation's capital; you can't seriously expect to throw a wall around it!" 

She didn't need her notes to rebut the point. Those same thoughts had been chasing around her brain as well. "This is not a war. This is a manhunt for the most dangerous villains our society has managed to produce so far this year. The obvious first step is to restrict their movements. Traffic _is_ circulating; it's just that no one's allowed to cross the city limits without being cleared. And of course the Armed Forces are involved; Washington doesn't have anything like sufficient police to cover itself thoroughly enough. What other option is there?" She peered into the lights, looking for faces among the raised arms. "Ralph." 

"CJ, this is sure going to inconvenience a lot of people and a lot of businesses. Tomorrow morning will be pretty chaotic. You're even talking building sweeps without a warrant. Invasion of privacy. That won't lift this administration in the eyes of the public." 

She glared. "We are going to find the First Lady." Her tone was flint-hard. "I'd like to see one decent citizen come up with a legitimate objection to such a search. As for the business end, let's be grateful for small mercies right now - such as the fact that this happened at night, when most people are already at home. Thanks to you, they'll hear about it in plenty of time to plan the new day accordingly. Arienne." 

"CJ, how on earth can this have happened in the first place? What went wrong?" 

She exhaled, hiding her relief at what was to her a simple question. "I seem to remember us going through this whole scenario once before - about a year ago, if memory serves. Does Rosslyn ring any bells?" Like any of them could forget. "I can't give you specifics, especially if I don't have them." It was a deliberate tactic to stress what she simply didn't possess to divert the queries from what she _did_ have, rather than resort to a bald-faced untruth. "The Secret Service does not comment on security procedures." Now that had to be the most convenient excuse in her repertoire. No one argued with Them. 

Well, almost no one. There's always some jerk who doesn't know any better - or some fool who likes to live on the edge. Another man jumped up. "This is the second major security breach in this administration alone. Doesn't the Secret Service know how to protect people anymore? Are there going to be some changes in its structure or its membership as a result?" 

The room got strangely quiet all of a sudden. 

CJ leaned on the podium and frowned in blatant wonder. It took her a moment to find voice. When she did, she spoke slowly, each phrase stressed more than the last. 

"Well, Max, I'll tell you what. I'll bring the Special Agent in Charge of White House security down here and you can ask him how his people managed to let the First Lady just sneak away like this, especially after two of them _died_ trying to prevent that." 

The guy sat down with alacrity. 

In the buffer of respectful stillness before everyone again shifted into high gear, one voice sounded unnaturally loud for all its normal volume. "CJ." 

She almost groaned. It _would_ be Danny. She was fast reaching the threshold of human endurance, and that handicapped both her ability and her requirement to field telling questions properly. 

"Sorry, there's just no more. I'll let you know when there is." She gathered her notes and beat a dignified yet speedy retreat, ignoring the shouts in her wake. 

People in the hall parted before her like the Hebrews did when Moses came down from Mount Sinai with his face all aglow. Her assistant Carol fell into step behind, safely out of range of that angry glare. 

"It went rather well." 

"That was easy compared to the next time." CJ made a beeline for her office. "No calls. If the briefing isn't enough for them, too bad so sad." 

"You got it." Carol paused for one beat. "What about you-know-who?" 

Yes, CJ knew _exactly_ who. She closed her eyes, briefly, without slowing down. 

"He has his uses. At times." 

Carol took that as permission to grant the Senior Correspondent of the White House Press Corps access rather than show his fanny the exit. 

Sure enough, CJ hadn't been seated for more than twenty seconds when Danny Concannon knocked. 

"Close the door," she instructed shortly. He paused, decided that she did in fact mean with him on the inside, and complied. 

"You cut me off in there," he began, his expression reproachful. 

The Press Secretary folded her arms on her desktop and studied this man whom she cared for a lot, and who cared for her even more. Hell, he'd once been _shot_ because of her. Between her fraying nerves over the events of this evening and the awful memories they'd stirred of another abduction not all that long ago, she had to keep him at a distance. 

"Let me scrounge up a dictionary and define 'No more' for you. Or maybe a thesaurus would be better? How many different ways do I have to say the same thing before you get it?" 

"There _is_ more," he insisted. "There can't possibly not be more." This was not the tone of a suitor who had tried so often to wheedle a dinner out of her, or a friend who would willingly die to protect her. The man standing here now was a reporter, through and through. "What about the grand jury investigation?" 

CJ closed her eyes again, and this time kept them closed. "I knew you were going to bring that up." 

"And you cut me off!" 

"That's _why_ I cut you off." Now she rose, her glare drilling through his skull. "Do you think we want the kidnappers to remember that detail, too? Do you have the first clue how hard it was for me to stand there and not piss them off, not say even a fraction of the things I _wanted_ to say about their methods and their morals? But I don't have the luxury of airing my own opinions - not while I'm behind that podium. I'm the official spokesperson for the President, remember? I'm not supposed to say anything that he wouldn't say. Just one derogatory comment from me on this could flush his wife's chances right down the tubes. How would you like that on your conscience?" 

Danny waited until she finished, until she caught her breath, and until the sparks cooled a bit in her vision. 

"I gotta admit, I'd sure like you to say all that on camera. It would light a fire under the whole country." 

CJ blinked, taken aback by the unexpected compliment. 

"Not that I'm disagreeing with you, mind." 

Pause. "Well. Glad to hear it." She let out a long, tired breath. "Just for that, I've decided that I'm going to let you help us." 

He smirked at this joking deprecation. "I can hardly wait." 

CJ dropped the comedy. "Until this is over, we've got to spin the news very delicately. The White House can't officially cast the abductors in too bad a light - yet - and we can't afford to push them into any sudden moves. Somehow, we need to get things across that'll mean one thing to them and something else to the general public." 

Danny nodded sagely. "Deceive the villains, but not the people." 

"Exactly." A bit of hope touched her gaze. He had even more experience in media than she did; his assistance would be invaluable. 

"So you're asking for my help." 

The hope evaporated in a flash. "You have a problem with that?" 

He gave her a cheerful grin. "It's just that you are asking _me_ for help." 

Where hope had so briefly formed, disbelief and then anger took over. No matter how much he liked her and wanted to draw closer to her, in defiance of all obstacles of career and memory, news was still the foundation of his existence. His whole attitude right now spelled "blackmail." 

"It's not like I have much of a choice." CJ turned away in disgust, her head bowed. Danny watched every move she made. 

"Fine. Name your price." 

This time _he_ blinked. "Excuse me?" 

She whirled on him so fast he fell back a step. The hurt in her eyes stabbed deep. "Don't pretend you didn't hear me. What do you want? An exclusive? A dinner? A real date, even? How about a fish of your own?" Her words came thick and fast. "Go ahead and say it. You've pretty much got me at your mercy now - because I will promise almost anything for the sake of the President, the First Lady, the First Daughters, the White House staff, the _American people_..." Her voice rose higher, almost cracking at the last. 

There had been a moment in time, six months past, when she had promised almost anything for _him_... 

Danny raised both hands, finally bringing this heartfelt tirade to a halt. 

"Easy, CJ, easy. Much as I loved that little speech just now - and I really did - I've got my own confession to make." His smile was genuine. "I'm a patriot myself. And a friend of the Bartlets. And I was kidding you." 

For several seconds she simply stared at him. 

He savored the sight, but didn't prolong it. "Of course I'll help. All you have to do is ask." 


	8. Other Half of My Soul, The 8

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 8 ~ 

The minutes ticked past, gathering inexorably into hours... 

No matter how much you might learn to like your boss, it can be hard to relax around him. When your boss is generally acknowledged to be the single most powerful man on earth, that challenge gets rather more difficult. When your boss is on a veritable rampage, you can pretty much forget about relaxation altogether. 

The very air of the Oval Office quivered, vibrating like train tracks when the locomotive is almost upon you. Its occupants, conversely, stood very still. Most of them acted as though afraid that one unnecessary word or gesture would destroy the last vestiges of their leader's self-control. 

None of them sat. Between the rudeness of sitting while their leader stood, the dire situation spread out before them, and their own stretched-to-the-breaking-point nerves, they couldn't stay seated if they tried. 

Their leader was the only one who didn't seem to be thinking about it. Literally. He acted almost like an automaton, cold and focused, carved features set in a perpetual frown. Out of both rage and fear, he refused to reveal his own emotions or even speak directly about his wife to any of them. Since he could clearly do nothing for her at this time, he just locked himself into full executive mode and clung desperately to the distractions that mode provided. 

His staff weren't fooled. They could _feel_ the raging volcano right beneath the surface. 

Leo never forgot that for one instant, even as he tried to pretend it wasn't there. "All enhanced security measures are in place. The whole District has been surrounded. The Armed Forces are sweeping buildings from north to south. The police are checking paneled vehicles inside city limits, as well as anyone who tries to leave." These facts were for the benefit of the Senior Staff, since the President had already heard it from the source. 

Josh shifted uncomfortably. "I doubt these self-acclaimed Defenders of a Strong America will appreciate that." 

"What if we end up pushing them to take _drastic_ measures?" Sam wondered aloud, starting to look frightened. 

"This is psychological warfare," Leo explained, adopting the role of military tactician. "The longer we wait, the harder it is on us - but the harder on them as well. They can't hold a hostage forever. On the other hand, they have no other bargaining power." He kept his voice detached, dispassionate. There really was no other way to operate. 

"The pressure's greatest when it's all over the headlines," CJ pointed out. 

"Right. The citywide search is our way of keeping the pressure on _them_. It's also a visible step that the people would expect." 

"The coordinators _are_ trying to disrupt the normal flow of business as little as possible while they're at it." 

"Oh, sure," Josh muttered. "Just an average day in the life of a national capital." 

"We've also got to make sure that Congress knows we still have some control of the situation," Toby added quietly. Then, before Leo could start in on him about _that_ old debate, he continued: "But we _don't_ want to convince the DSA as thoroughly - or else they'll figure that we don't plan to capitulate at all." 

The deadly balance they had to achieve struck them all in the face. There would be no room for error. 

The President's fists were clenched, his vision aimed yet again out the window. "They're holed up somewhere," he seethed. "Somewhere close. Right now we're just beating the bushes. Sooner or later, they'll flush like grouse. If we can get them to move before they're quite _ready_ to move, they'll make a mistake." 

The vivid image of a startled flock of game birds being blasted out of the sky by shotgun shells occurred to just about everyone. 

But the kidnappers would certainly take along their captives in their flight... and with a wide spread of firepower, _anyone_ could get hurt. 

Of them all, the President did not flinch at the thought. Perhaps he deliberately divorced his mind from the entire concept, lest one such apprehension lead to another and start a cascade reaction beyond all his control. 

Josh waited a few careful seconds, received a confirming nod from Leo, and changed the subject. "We've got assignments shuffled and additional bodies recruited." The junior assistants were doing wonders for their supervisors, who'd become suddenly more overworked than ever. "The East Wing staff are pitching in, too." Like everyone else, he avoided direct mention of the First Lady if at all possible. 

The President uttered a sarcastic _humph_. "We think they act too self-sufficient and independent; they think we're power-mad and arrogant." That was an accurate interpretation of the competitive edge between the two extreme sides of the White House. " _Finally_ , we all have a common goal. Damned well about time." 

Sam grimaced. He himself had been one source of those tensions in the past. 

Toby gauged the executive waters before reporting in turn. "Naturally, we'll be expected to postpone or cancel whatever events we can. I'd like to recommend -" 

The President cut him off. "Business as usual." 

None of them had looked away from him yet; they all expressed their increased attention by leaning forward. 

"You heard me. We're not running scared. You tell everyone who's expected to be here tomorrow that they'd better keep their appointments. We still have a nation to run." 

"Yes, sir," Toby said promptly. Somehow he managed not to beam at having predicted their Commander-in-Chief's determination so accurately. Sam shot him a grin of congratulations. 

"Are you still thinking about an address, sir?" the Deputy Communications Director inquired, keeping it soft and considerate. 

The President shook his head. "I'm not sure. It may not be the best approach after all." 

"I agree. If you say anything except yes or no, they'll get suspicious." 

"What about the next briefing?" CJ asked. 

The President's face tightened. "Put it off as long as you can. No point in telling the world what it already knows." 

"But if I put it off _too_ long -" 

"Don't worry. We'll have more data before long." He sounded very sure of that. 

If only they all could share his optimism. Or his denial. 

CJ forged ahead, hunting for the positive side. "I'm working on a way to spin the news in a couple of places. Divert attention." 

"Go for it," Leo advised. "Even if it means being in hock to the press. Better the devil you know..." 

"I take it we're keeping the ransom demand under wraps," Toby clarified. 

"I've got enough people screaming for my blood as it stands!" the President almost snarled. "Let everyone else think we haven't even heard a demand yet. Then they won't wonder why we seem to be doing so little." 

Josh hesitated before yielding to the need to point out one flaw in that logic. "Except that the DSA can call any editor in town and make a formal statement." 

The President raked him with a chilly stare. "That's no reason for us to broadcast it early. If it does come out, the people will understand why we sat on it. We've got to stall, but we can't afford to _look_ like we're stalling. That's the crux." 

Silence drifted downward like dust. The staff traded covert, anxious glances. Right now their boss had only one source of hope, and he clung to that hope with all his strength. Not the efforts of the Secret Service, the police and the militia trying to sieve through a community of millions, but the knowledge that his wife carried a hidden radio transmitter. That fact alone kept him sane right now. It was only a matter of time before she signaled them. 

So long as she was alive to do so. 

What if that signal never came? How long could he realistically wait? How long could he _physically_ wait? How long could his _people_ wait - the staff _or_ the nation? 

There was nothing more to say - except things the President could not bear to hear. Leo quickly preempted the threat of a well-intentioned personal comment. "That's it for now." 

"And go home," Bartlet ordered before anyone could turn away. "All of you. It's going to one. Get some rest while you can." 

He had a point: barring that signal, it was highly unlikely that anything new would develop in the next five or six hours. The search of all Washington could easily take a week, and the kidnappers had made it clear they wouldn't be calling back. 

No one voiced the obvious observation - that almost certainly the President would not be taking his own advice. 

How long could he drive himself like this? Once before, the State of the Union and the threat of war in Kashmir needed only an extra little nudge from the flu to lay him out cold on the Oval Office carpet. How could _this_ level of stress _not_ trigger such an attack? 

The four staff members exited in silence, trying not to slump under the weight of their mutual depression. 

"Man, and we thought the grand jury was a downer," Josh muttered, hands in pockets. 

"Ah, we _thrive_ on challenge around here," Sam boasted, leading the way down the hall. 

"After this, the investigation will be too tame for us." 

"Yeah, right." Sam muffled a yawn with the back of his hand. "Sure wish I lived closer. I'm gonna spend more time driving than sleeping." 

"What we need is a proper dorm in the basement, for nights like this. At least we could cut the travel time. Half a dozen beds, lockers, some personal stuff..." 

"Why stop there? Let's commandeer the Hay-Adams as a residence for the entire White House staff. It's luxurious, and it's right across the street. Imagine the people-hours we'd save by eliminating the commute entirely!" 

"Imagine the irritation I'd save by eliminating both of _you_ right now," Toby grumbled, even less inclined than usual to put up with these two characters. 

Sam watched the Communications Director warily from one corner of his eye. Some people used humor as a defense mechanism, and some didn't. "Are you going home now?" 

"What do _you_ think?" 

He smirked. "I rest my case." 

"Goes for me too," Josh endorsed casually. "I haven't disregarded an executive command since before breakfast." 

CJ brought up the rear, engrossed in her own thoughts and taking no part in this banter, until now. "Guys, we'll only make it harder on the President if he finds out that we're disobeying his direct orders. Even for reasons of loyalty -" 

The wall of TVs snagged her attention. She stopped short at the unmistakable broadcasts they showed, and then swung aside to watch. In seconds her colleagues picked up on her movements and gathered around, their eyes darting from one display to another. 

News anchors dominated the breaking coverage: "For those of you just joining us, we can confirm at this time that First Lady Abbey Bartlet has been abducted, and her current whereabouts are still unknown..." 

Reel of the hotel and the motorcade were also prevalent: "The First Lady was attending a meeting of the ASPCA at the Washington Monarch Hotel last night, along with numerous other local and national celebrities, when a fire alarm allegedly went off..." 

Images of CJ herself appeared copiously, standing tall at her podium: "Two Secret Service agents were killed and four DC police officers injured in the hijacking..." 

Photos of Abbey's life paraded before the world: "Abigail Scheuermann married Josiah Bartlet in 1967, and earned her medical degree at Harvard in 1975..." 

Josh bared his teeth. "Aw, hell, they're going into her personal life _now_?" 

Photos of Abbey with her husband and her three children: "Mrs. Bartlet is much-beloved by the public. Should anything happen to her, it'll be a hard blow to the spirit of the entire nation - and to her family. In particular the President, who suffers from multiple sclerosis..." 

"Why not just write her obituary now and be done with it?" Sam demanded furiously, throwing his hands into the air. 

Photos of Abbey with Jed during the campaign, at his inauguration, and attending various functions both with and without him: "There is some speculation in certain circles about the level of influence Dr. Bartlet has had on her husband's Presidency..." 

"Damn." Toby's single expletive cursed the entire media industry. 

"Okay, that's _it_!" CJ spun away from that special update. "Carol! Get the producers of every single news station in town on the line, now. Conference them all together. I want to say this only once." 

Her assistant rushed to comply. 

"Dibs on busting talking heads!" Sam offered, his dark eyes blazing. 

"You'll have to wait in line." CJ opened and closed her fists in pure outrage. "I've never seen such a callous approach in the news before and I'm going to make sure it _never_ happens again. Not on _my_ watch." 

"Any chance of keeping it from the President?" Josh asked plaintively. 

"How about from the kids, too?" CJ reminded them. "Not _this_ one, but see if I don't stuff the next script draft down a few throats." 

"Oh, we'd _love_ that headline," Toby muttered, glowering under lowered brows. 

She glowered right back at him. "Ask me if I care. There aren't words fitting enough to describe the pain _that's_ going to cause the whole Bartlet family!" 

"Concurred." His voice was deadly soft. 

"Hook me up, too," Josh demanded, bracing for an all-out attack. "I want a piece of this." 

Sam's hand shot up. "Seconded!" 

Toby's black expression cast his own vote in favor. 

So much for turning in on command... 

CJ surveyed the three men, then allowed herself a grin of fierce anticipation. "Gentlemen, muster your indignation and follow me." With a flourish, she led them into her office and into battle, all four determined to defend the First Family of the United States. 

* * *

Inch by inch, the door to the presidential suite cracked open. 

Abbey Bartlet's voice came through, faint yet clear: "You know, some pets of past First Families have received more media attention than even the famous faces here tonight!" 

The youngest of the First Daughters froze, her eyes wide. Then she pushed the door open a bit more, until she could see. 

Jed Bartlet occupied the couch. Still in his suit and tie, rather than the sweats he usually lounged in after business hours. His blazer lay over the sofa back, almost like a draped flag... 

He was watching the video of his wife's dinner speech. 

"That's why _my_ family doesn't have one at the moment. We didn't think that moving into the White House was a sufficient reason in itself to adopt. I'm sure someone would have accused us of finding yet _another_ way to entice voters." 

The twenty-year-old edged closer, trying to ignore the TV, trying to block out the ache of hearing her mother so close - and yet so far. She peered sideways for a better view of her father's face. 

"Besides, we don't want to detract from the news coverage of visiting diplomats. Imagine what an international uproar there'd be if the First Puppy developed a snappish temper at just the wrong moment..." 

Everything about him projected an unendurable strain. His whole self hung on that recorded presence, his muscles tense, his lips pressed tightly together, his eyes like bullets. He held himself still... except that each breath trembled, on the absolute knife-edge of a sob. 

Yet he did not let the tears fall. 

"It's simply amazing how much comfort and relaxation a pet can bring to your life. I always treasured that when I was young, and I've missed it a lot in later years. Especially _these_ years, let me tell you!" 

"Dad?" 

For one definite heartbeat, he didn't seem to hear her - and then his whole body jerked around. 

"Zoey." 

Almost immediately, he raised the remote control and shut off the machine. Sudden silence swept about them. 

She advanced carefully, hating to intrude upon him, hating her own misery that craved his attention when he was hurting so much as well, and most of all hating the people who caused this misery in the first place. "How come you're still up? It's after three!" 

"I could ask you the same thing, Miss Kettle." She was fully dressed as well. 

He didn't smile at the small, automatic joke, even though she managed a brief one. 

"I guess I couldn't sleep any more than you can." 

Wordlessly he shifted to make room for her, and she curled up on the sofa beside him, cuddling in close. He wrapped his arm around her and rubbed _her_ arm, the way only a parent can do. She laid her head on his shoulder. 

These two had always been close. He was her hero; she was his baby girl. 

Neither really wanted to talk. Still, the constant hum of their tortured thoughts fed off the quiet and eventually threatened to suffocate them both. 

"How's Ellie?" Jed asked at last. 

Zoey sighed. "I'll bet you she isn't sleeping, either." 

"No contest." 

Silence. 

"We've both spoken to Liz a few times now. She really wishes she were here, too." 

"Should just keep the line open permanently." He gazed at the ceiling. "How much do you think Annie knows?" 

"Mmm... pretty much everything, I expect." Even now, Zoey found herself smiling at the thought of her precocious niece. That smile soured quickly, though. 

"She's entirely too bright for her own good." Her father exhaled explosively. " _No_ child should have to go through this. Hell, no _adult_ should!" 

The silence reverberated after that outburst. He felt responsible for the sufferings of his wife, his daughters, his _grand_ daughter... there was just no end to the ripples of effect. 

When he sighed again, Zoey sat up. "Dad, you really should get some sleep. You need it." 

Jed nodded at the wisdom of her words, but not in agreement. In fact he looked like he intended to never sleep again. "Maybe I will... after _you_ do." 

"Yeah, but _I_ don't run the country." 

"Some would argue that _I_ don't, either." 

"Dad...!" Of the three sisters, Zoey seemed to have the highest concentration of the Bartlet bloodlines. She was generally conceded to be the most like her parents... and the toughest. Now she speared her father with a disapproving eye. 

He reflected it back in full measure. "Everything's going to be _fine_. You and Ellie and I will stick this out, no matter _who_ throws _what_ at us." That statement packed all the power of his oath of office. 

He squeezed her a bit. "Now go on and turn in." For a brief instant, his features softened. "Otherwise I'll get it from Charlie tomorrow." 

Zoey couldn't help it; she grinned. "I've already heard that lecture. Which is why I told him to stick with you rather than me." 

"Well, now I know I'm in good hands." 

They both stood up, and she hugged him again, wanting to never let go - not until her mother walked through that bedroom door, alive and well. 

He seemed to long for the same contact, the same promise of support, every bit as much as she did. But at last he drew back... before the self-built wall that sealed off his deepest feelings crumbled entirely. 

Zoey kissed his cheek. "I'll let you get back to the film." Her voice shook just a fraction, and she blinked several times. "I've seen it before." 

Jed's eyes clouded over darkly. "No, I'm done with it." 

He said no more, but no more _needed_ be said. Right now, watching that video bore the stigma that he was convinced he'd never see his wife again for real. 


	9. Other Half of My Soul, The 9

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 9 ~ 

Dawn arrived in all its glory and promise, pouring down upon Washington, DC, bathing public and private homes alike, making white pilloried governmental buildings gleam, radiating hope and optimism. 

Since the day before, something had changed. Complacency had been severely jarred. The city was far less willing to embrace that hope, that optimism as it used to be. 

The city was under attack. 

Capitol Hill is well named, being the highest plot of land in the capital city - although how it got its unique spelling is still under debate. The Capitol Building is second only to the Monument in actual height around these parts, and its cornerstone was laid by Washington himself. From the top of its cast-iron dome, modeled after St. Peter's Basilica and only slightly smaller, Lady Freedom looks down on the two Houses of Congress and out over the most influential city in the modern world. This is the heart of the United States nervous system. 

Today, that heart was racing. 

A gavel banged solidly on an elevated desk. "The Senate will come to order," the Speaker proclaimed. Those Senators who had not yet taken their seats hastened at once to do so. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, before we address the order of business for today, I will confirm that the First Lady was indeed abducted last night... and that at this time her whereabouts and her status are still unknown." 

The huge chamber tingled with stillness. Of course this stunning news had been proclaimed over all the networks and splashed across all the headlines. The White House Press Secretary had held one briefing already today. But to have it announced here established the full status of national emergency that it deserved. 

This was also the most recent report possible... and unfortunately a negative one at that. 

"I'm sure we all wish to extend to President Bartlet and his family our utmost support at this terrible time." 

Applause rippled throughout the room - not the enthusiastic variety spawned by triumph, but somber and sympathetic and sincere. Friends and adversaries, regardless of party affiliation, joined together in unanimous agreement. 

The Speaker nodded in appreciation. "So noted." Having offered that kind gesture, he consulted the slate before him. The nation still had to trundle onward. "First item of -" 

"Point of order, Mr. Speaker!" someone called from the back benches. 

Every head turned. 

The Speaker nodded again, this time in recognition. "The Gentleman from New York." 

So permitted, that gentleman rose. "Sir, I want to express my concern for the President's health. Right now he has to be under enormous mental and emotional pressure. Are we certain he is still able to discharge his executive duties?" 

The instant silence was deafening. 

Then all attention swung from the man standing at the back... to one man sitting up front. 

John Hoynes sat stiffly in his seat. Now his chin rose and his head rotated, with the attitude of knowing what he would find: eyes fastened on him from all sides. 

Yep, this just _had_ to come up. 

"Mr. Speaker, if I may respond?" 

The Speaker nodded, now in stern anticipation. "Mr. President." 

Hoynes fought down a wince, as usual. The Vice President of the United States was also the President of the Senate, and while in this chamber he was addressed as such out of common courtesy. But he wasn't... _President_. 

The heir apparent to the American Presidency slowly stood, and as slowly turned a complete revolution, taking the entire measure of the Senate. Then, drawing a deep breath, he faced the bench. 

"The question is, unfortunately, pertinent. The President is bound by federal governmental policy not to accede to the kidnappers' demands, whatever they may be." 

If said demands were in fact met, then Bartlet would step down - and Hoynes would step up. But that detail was not common knowledge. Yet. 

"I can only guess what he must be going through. Certainly he has no wish to give in. But it's equally certain that he loves his wife very dearly." 

Now that _was_ common knowledge. The expressed concern did have merit: how could Bartlet _possibly_ think straight, as a Commander-in-Chief must? 

The Vice President cleared his throat emphatically. "However, I myself have been in direct contact with the White House, and so far there hasn't been the slightest indication that the President is not fit to continue to lead our nation. Rest assured that if such a time does come, we will all know about it." 

He swept the chamber again from end to end, frowning, daring anyone to challenge his claim, then sat down again. A buzz of frantic stage whispering filled the background. He had _seemed_ to publicly deny any allegation that he was all too ready to fill in for a grounded Chief Executive... 

The Speaker gaveled for quiet. "Thank you, Mr. President. We're all very relieved to hear that the President is bearing up well." This played like the Theater of the Absurd, as though one man was performing both roles. "Please convey our best wishes when you next speak with him." Pause. "Now, resuming..." 

All through the remainder of the session, though, that first question dominated almost every member's mind. As Hoynes finally took his leave, he caught several odd glances aimed his way. Whether they were supportive, in the fear that Bartlet would shortly come apart at the seams and a temporary stand-in would be needed, or whether they were condemning, in the fear that Hoynes would take any steps he could get away with to become the new boss all the sooner, one could not always be sure. 

His personal secretary ambushed him right outside the chamber. She held a simple piece of notepaper, neither large nor very important-looking... yet she held it very carefully. 

He had no doubt as to its message. "The White House?" 

The woman nodded, _not_ smiling at what should have been an honor. "Yes, sir. The President would like to see you." 

His sigh sounded more like a growl. "The moment that New Yorker opened his mouth, I saw this coming." Then he shook his head in resignation. When the President "asks" to see you, you drop everything - even if you're the closest thing to an equal in this country that he has. "All right, let's go." 

* * *

Every single time he entered the White House, and that wasn't exceptionally often, John Hoynes felt like an intruder. No one who worked there, from the President on down, really trusted him. The employees he passed in the halls tended to ignore him, as though afraid that showing any interest in his mere presence could be construed as treason by certain others. One might almost think that he needed the obligatory Secret Service escort to protect him, not from the ever-present danger out there, but from the sheer resentment in here. 

During his travels through these richly-appointed corridors, he looked for the Senior Staff - and found none of them. No doubt they were working frantically at a multitude of tasks... tasks about which the Vice President currently knew nothing. He rarely ever did, until those tasks made the news, or unless they involved him directly. The White House worked hard to keep it that way. 

At least he'd arrived here with a minimum of trouble. There were advantages to his rank, after all, one of which was being waved through the tightest security cordons. The average local resident had a tougher go of it today. 

The runner-up to the Oval Office entered reception outside that same Office - and stopped. The woman seated behind the desk facing him was not Mrs. Landingham. 

Hoynes had not attended the funeral. He hadn't known the President's personal secretary well enough to feel that need. Yet her absence from this spot where she'd always been - and her _replacement_ \- gave even him pause. 

"Good morning, Mr. Vice President." The young woman sounded pleasant and efficient... and somehow totally _wrong_. 

Another voice extended the same greeting from behind, startling him. "Good morning, Mr. Vice President." A second woman sat at Charlie Young's desk, this one with long straight blond hair rather than long curly blond hair. He couldn't name either of them, but the second seemed more familiar. Perhaps he'd seen her with one of the Senior Staff, or something. 

"Uh, good morning." He looked from one to the other, virtually surrounded, as though he'd been ambushed a second time in the same morning. 

"The President is expecting you, sir," the first woman said helpfully, and nodded towards the closed door. 

"Thanks." He squared his shoulders and walked forward. Best to just get it over with. His escort did not follow any further, abandoning him to his fate. 

"John. Thanks for coming." Bartlet stood behind his desk, papers in hand. 

"Mr. President." Hoynes started to close the door - then realized that the President's personal aide was beside him, rising from a chair near the portal, the only other person present. Charlie slipped out silently and pulled the door shut, leaving these two highest-ranking people in the nation to confer in private. 

The Vice President hesitated a moment, then moved slowly closer, forming his own evaluation of the scenario. Bartlet moved with surprising energy. _Too much_ energy. He looked fresh enough, but the circles under his eyes testified to a night totally devoid of sleep... and those eyes were as cold and brittle as the polar ice cap. His hands never quite stilled, and his frown surpassed the darkest moments Hoynes had ever witnessed in the past. 

What do you say to a man whose wife has been kidnapped? Never mind that the price for her safe return required a betrayal of everything he'd sworn to uphold... 

And then there's the trifling fact that he was currently facing the man who, whether through resignation or for medical reasons, would replace him. 

"How are you, sir?" A stupid question, to be sure, but it had to be asked. 

"I'm fine." The strength in the President's tone almost made that equally pointless statement believable. By now he had to be fully submerged in self-denial. 

"No news?" Presumably, if there had been, Hoynes would have been informed at once. At least, that was _supposed_ to be the case. 

Bartlet shrugged, a totally noncommittal gesture - but his every nuance proclaimed in neon letters that as yet there had been no progress in locating his wife. 

The Vice President shook his head sadly. "God, I am so sorry. I know the words can't mean much, but still..." He meant it, too. Political rivalries counted for nothing at a time like this. 

This time he was ignored outright. Plainly his boss did not wish to discuss the heart-wrenching matter at all. 

Hoynes respected that. Some people hated to talk about their problems; it made their self-control even harder. Besides, today's problem added only an extra element of affliction: it could propel one of them right out of this office, and the other right into it. 

"Listen, I want to talk to you about a few things." The President did not offer a chair, but he looked too wound up to sit himself. 

The Vice President braced himself, very much on the defensive. "Sir, I want to state up front that I had nothing to do with that question this morning." 

Sifting constantly through the swath of papers across that ornate and historical desk, Bartlet looked up in some confusion. "What question?" 

Now Hoynes frowned. How could the news of his little inheritance debate _not_ have made it here by now? Was this some sort of joke - or test? "Kerton's question in the Senate, about your fitness for duty." 

"Oh, that." His leader gave it no mind at all. "It was bound to crop up at some point. I am glad you were there to field it. Now..." At once he moved onward. "We didn't have much time to talk on the phone last night. I want to bring you up to date on what we're doing around here, and I'd like your input on one or two things in specific." 

So, the reason for this summons had not been to accuse him of sowing the seeds of rebellion after all. Hoynes was both relieved and surprised that he hadn't been immediately suspect, especially on that touchy subject. He hoped very much that the First Lady would be recovered and soon, if only to ease the turmoil he could read in the man standing before him. 

Meanwhile, perhaps he could ease the burden... and just maybe fulfill his purpose as it had originally been designed more than two hundred years ago, instead of the relatively powerless window-dressing into which it had evolved. 

"Of course, sir. How can I help?" 

When Hoynes left, some time later, he did so with the distinct impression that a lot had been accomplished - a rare sensation indeed when he came here. 

Charlie stood right outside, waiting patiently to go back in once the meeting ended. Hoynes deciphered that at once: no matter how efficiently Bartlet seemed to be functioning right now, his closest people were seriously concerned about him; so concerned that they didn't want to leave him alone. 

Now that was devotion. 

The young man also had a message. "Mr. Vice President, Mr. McGarry would like to speak with you if you don't mind." 

Hoynes muttered under his breath. Ambush number three. He had no doubt that the Chief of Staff would say what the President had not. 

"Right. Thanks." He could not really ignore the request, no matter how tempting it might be. He and Leo had a lot of history between them, most of it not that good. Still, this was an emergency. The Party - indeed, the nation - had to pull together. 

Nodding in respect, Charlie went back inside the Oval Office. The two women working away also politely acknowledged the Vice President as he took his leave. 

Leo stood on the threshold of his office, waiting _im_ patiently. 

He looked like he was just spoiling for a fight. In fact, he looked every bit as stressed as the President himself. 

"John." Nothing else, no words of welcome or even a pretense at friendship. He waved Hoynes in and closed the door personally - likewise not a good sign. 

"Leo. I can see you're having a hard day." The Vice President selected a chair and calmly settled back. 

"Let's skip the soft shoe dance, okay?" Leo stalked around him en route to his desk, as much as to declare who was in charge here. These two men had been engaged in a covert contest of wills ever since this administration began. Officially, Hoynes was the second most powerful man around. 

_Un_ officially, realistically, truthfully... 

The Vice President shifted into indignant mode, and not just because of that harsh opening line. "What? Am I not allowed to express some honest concern for what you guys are up against? Is it _that_ unexpected of me?" 

Every person involved in American federal politics knew Leo to be the President's closest friend and staunchest defender. He also had earned a much-envied reputation for political genius. He was the consummate behind-the-scenes support unit. And right now he could do next to nothing, except watch Bartlet and worry about him. The strain was showing. 

What better person to take it out on than the man who presented the second biggest threat at this moment, right after the DSA themselves? "Don't waste my time. What the hell were you thinking in the Senate?" Leo did not sit, trying to intimidate with his height as well. 

Hoynes set himself more firmly in his seat, ready for combat. "Don't blame that on me. Do you think everyone else can't guess at the six kinds of hell the President's going through, no matter how much he hides in here? Did you honestly believe that the Twenty-fifth wouldn't come up at _some_ point? Or maybe you didn't read the transcript." 

Leo's expression was thunderous. "Oh, sure. So will everyone else in Congress by now. After your little act they're probably laughing up a storm. I just hope the general public is a little more trusting. And how about the kidnappers, huh? Now what do you suppose _they'll_ think about that scene?" 

" _Little act?_ " This meeting of theirs had degenerated into an actual fight in record time. "You think I was acting when I fended off that question so fast? I could easily have drawn it out for half the morning. How about a few minutes ago in the office right next door here, when I offered to do whatever I could to help? When the President _asked_ me to help, do you think _he_ was acting?" 

The answer to that challenge was obvious. Leo gritted his teeth and replied honestly. "No, I'm sure he wasn't." 

Hoynes pressed his advantage. "He asked for my help. I intend to give it to him. You can't countermand that, no matter what you think would work better or _look_ better." 

The man who had brought him on the ticket turned away in impotent frustration. 

"I'm not your enemy, Leo, no matter how much you may think I am." Hoynes kept his voice low, yet sharp. "Yours _or_ the President's. I'm not enjoying this upheaval myself, you know! I happen to like Mrs. Bartlet, too." 

The dust of battle seemed to hesitate, looming between them, anticipating more of the same, then slowly subsided. A bit. 

Leo sighed heavily. "I need to keep you in the loop. I _want_ to keep you in the loop. But damn it, John -" 

The Vice President glanced away, acknowledging his own mistakes. "Fine. I admit that I didn't really stop to consider how the abductors might take it. I was kind of busy pacifying politicians rather than terrorists." He sighed as well. "I don't want to add to the President's pain, and I don't want to take his job from him. Not even with the best of intentions." 

The Chief of Staff looked down, believing him. "Okay. Sorry." 

Hoynes flicked a hand, ending the contest. "You've under your own strain. Just let me pitch in where I can." 

Leo shook his head - not in refusal, but in trepidation. "The problem is, while it'd be great if the kidnappers got the impression that the President has to hand off some of his duties because of what this crisis is doing to him, that's not the image we want to present to the rest of the world. Everybody and his dog will start jumping to conclusions." 

Pause. "Point for you." 

"John, we just can't have you too prominent in the public eye right now. Not unless we're _very_ careful." 

Hoynes weighed this every bit as carefully. 

"I understand." 

Another pause. 

The Vice President offered a sad smile. "You're keeping a close eye on him. I'm glad." 

Neither of them mentioned re-election, the grand jury, or the demand for resignation. It was enough that they'd forged the fresh start of an alliance, based upon the gigantic task before them and mutual anxiety for their leader caught smack in the middle of it. 

Leo formed his next words with difficulty. "If... he does start to come apart... there's no sign of it yet, but... you'll be one of the first to know." And the reluctance in his tone did not stem from any personal mistrust for the man seated before him. 

Hoynes nodded in full comprehension. He wouldn't want to watch Jed Bartlet break down either. 

* * *

All around the globe, from closest allies to direst enemies, the kidnapping of the First Lady of the United States made front-page news. Even the most anti-American nations joined in the general outcry and condemnation. Nancy and Donna channeled a flood of such messages from world leaders left and right. 

No doubt many of those world leaders wondered if, at any time now, they would be the one to receive a direct call from a distraught Chief Executive, begging for some kind of pro-terrorist concession in defiance of every international _anti_ -terrorism policy, in order to save the life of one woman. The fact that it was his _wife_ didn't really matter... did it? 

How do you refuse a plea like that? Even though all of them knew they _had_ to refuse? 

What amazed so many people was that some of the more volatile organizations, both domestic and foreign - many not above this kind of tactic themselves - actually seemed more interested in the principle hostage's welfare than in the hostage-takers' success. It was one thing to assault the President. A large number of the electorate had voted against him at the start, his best efforts and fairest judgments still had to anger _somebody_ , and the power and prestige of his office acted like a magnet and focal point for aggressive protest. People naturally rallied around him as a symbol of patriotism. He had the clout to pressure just about anyone into almost anything. When America ran into trouble, no matter what kind, he automatically got the lion's share of the blame. Whether you wanted to coerce a foreign country, punish the U.S. government, or hurt this nation's spirit at large, he provided far and away the best target. 

But the First Lady was not seen as political. Although she couldn't separate herself completely from her husband's career field, she wielded what influence she had outside of that mudslinging, backstabbing, foe-building arena. Also, while the President's many restrictive responsibilities tended to obscure his generous and compassionate nature, his wife's relative freedom to be herself accentuated her brilliance and grace. Jed Bartlet couldn't help but have enemies. Abbey Bartlet had none. 

One might almost think that the loose affiliation of world terrorists had established an unwritten code in this regard, a code to which all had thus far adhered. Go after the President if you must; that could be justified and even applauded for the sake of the noble cause you believe in so rightly. But leave the First Lady out of it. She didn't deserve to be dragged into the violent end of political issues. She was just too _nice_. 

If only _every_ person merited such basic human respect... 

The common populous found its own way to express its views. As with any security issue, whether local or international, today all public tours of the White House were canceled. That, however, didn't stop the people from coming. 

All along the perimeter fencing that protectively surrounded this premier residence in the Western Hemisphere, crowds had been gathering since the night before. Some came and went and came again; some stayed for hours at a time. Many carried religious texts in a number of languages. Some carried hand-lettered signs that proclaimed their sympathy for the First Family's ordeal. Some left candles, flowers or personal notes. It was as if they couldn't endure being anywhere else, even though their chances of actually seeing anything were next to nonexistent. Perhaps they all nurtured an illogical yet irresistible hope that by their proximity alone they might somehow nudge this nightmare closer to a happy awakening. 

This touching display of public affection had a sinister parallel. People might be incensed at such an act perpetrated against one of the most popular celebrities in the world, and they might look towards the President in faith that he would indeed find some way to make it all right again... but that also meant that any wrong move or faulty judgment on his part would be laid bare for everyone to see. 

From inside this fishbowl the view altered radically. It wasn't just the huge increase of security, either. Oh, sure, no one got in or out unless they passed _very_ tight clearance restrictions, far tighter than usual even for this place, and none who made it in attempted any casual forays out again for leisure or business or a breath of air. It wasn't the teeth-grinding suspense, either, that permeated everywhere like a living, malevolent presence. It wasn't even the disturbing news, impossible to conceal from this precinct's scuttlebutt, that Admiral Hackett from Bethesda had virtually moved in for the foreseeable future, to give his professional certification of a President's continuing stability... or to provide his medical skills to a President on the precipice's crumbling edge. 

Naturally the staff beheld their leader much more closely and much less guardedly than those beyond the gate. Today they fully expected to see him not at all. None would have been surprised if he sealed himself in the Residence rather than let anyone witness his torment. No person should have to suffer in full public sight, much less suffer this intensely. Besides, his children would naturally be the best adhesive for holding him together. 

Instead, the White House seemed to see more of its prime resident than at almost any time before. He was in and out of the Oval Office, to and from the Situation Room, from his Chief of Staff's office to the Communications area to reception and back again, slipping upstairs frequently to check on his daughters yet always returning to work before long. Clearly he couldn't stay away any more than the citizens gathering beyond his front door. 

Equally clearly, he spurned any conception of knuckling under to threats of any kind. Not from criminals; not from his own health. 

Where he walked - stalked, prowled, paced - everyone else got out of his path in a hurry. Even though he threw himself into his work and never faltered in his decisions, even though he ignored the burden of fatigue or the need for sleep, even though he wore a virtual mask to hide his internal devastation from the world, one could detect the crackling tension anywhere in the same room. 

Another thing he avoided like the plague was any direct reference to his wife. His staff didn't dare mention her around him either, fearing a reaction that none could predict. They shared the feeling that if he so much as voiced her name aloud, he'd shatter completely. 

Like the rest of the world, almost all of the White House work force did not yet know the real reason behind this despicable assault. They assumed that Bartlet anticipated a political blackmail demand at any moment - a demand he was duty-bound to reject, whatever the personal cost - and meanwhile he had to distract himself somehow. If such a distraction could possibly ease his agony, they fully endorsed it. The least they could do in turn was try to keep up with him. Might as well get something concrete done in the interim. His unexpected yet welcome concentration rubbed off on everyone else around; together they swore to stay the course, to be there and be ready when he finally did need them. 

One and all, the staff liked their leader's personality. He always treated the lowliest workers like people, even if he could rarely get their names right. He was not above trading a joke or two with strangers of any standing. Despite his privileged position at the pinnacle of American society, he still saw himself as human. 

There were no casual jokes today. Being human had suddenly become a severe drawback. 

In this age of telecommunications, the President could speak to anyone and everyone without leaving his own office. In a democracy, however, even that isn't always sufficient; the representatives of the people are expected to meet their constituents face to face. When surrounded by such extremes of security, even security for his own good, the Chief Executive always felt caged. The briefest trips outside this fortress, though they dragged the whole cloud of paranoia right along, granted him at least some sense of greater mobility. Of course, in crisis all public appearances were put on hold, regardless of how much planning went into them or how much benefit they might bring. The cage drew even tighter. 

Some people are just hard to control. Bartlet stood his ground and insisted that some pieces of business, planned days, weeks or months ago, were not to be discarded. If he couldn't go out into the world, he could still bring the world to him. He chose not to issue a public statement after all, but his actions spoke loudly and eloquently. 

The few privileged guests whose appointments dragged them into this marathon of horror, Congresspeople and diplomats alike, were discretely warned in advance to avoid certain topics. All complied in genuine consideration... and all commented afterwards on Bartlet's seething determination and barely-contained anguish. Many National Security Council operatives were, of course, directly involved in resolving this attack upon the Presidency, but many other individuals in no such official capacity found some excuse to stop by and extend their own offers of assistance - all without dropping a certain name even once. 

Even though he never spoke of them either, or acknowledged them openly, Bartlet had to recognize these subtle gestures of support for what they were. If anything, they fueled his stamina even further. They also seemed to harden his resolve to not let his feelings get the least bit in his way. Right now, any display of emotion other than cold anger was anathema. 

As much as everyone preferred to see this side of their Commander-in-Chief rather than a broken and helpless victim, they also harbored a deep-set dread. He had never been so intense, so focused, so driven in his life. It was his only protection: to wall himself in so tightly that almost nothing personal could squeeze out. 

But there had to be a mortal limit. Sooner or later, if this hideous strain did not let up, the wall would crack... either that, or the mind behind it. 


	10. Other Half of My Soul, The 10

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 10 ~ 

"Donna!" The Deputy Chief of Staff barreled into reception at high speed. 

Donna looked up calmly from her work. "Hello, stranger. I haven't seen you in, oh, a good fifteen minutes." 

"Yeah, that's way too long - it's weirding me out. Come on." Josh shuffled feet constantly, hating to waste time at a standstill. He hadn't been his usual laid-back, jaunty self all morning, and more than one junior staffer had commented on it. 

She rose automatically to accompany him, then shot a glance at the other desk. 

Nancy smiled back. "Go ahead. I'll survive for a bit." 

Josh was already half-out the door. Donna rushed after him. "You know, you didn't check up on me anywhere near this often when I sat right outside your office. Some people might wonder if you don't trust me out of your sight." 

"I trust you _too_ much; that's the problem." He didn't look right at her... and yet already he seemed more relaxed and normal - for Josh, anyway. 

She, likewise, had missed their constant bickering, as often as not conducted at a quick march through the halls. After only half a day, too. 

Of course she didn't plan to admit that anytime soon. "Well, if you're here to ask me back, good luck. I can really get to like my new job. Important people are calling in from all over the world. I've just spoken to three ambassadors and a prime minister!" 

"Maybe you can track down another distant relative of Lord Marbury, huh?" Without decelerating, Josh threw a perfectly deadpan glance over his shoulder. 

She knew he was teasing. Both of them knew she'd give him back as good. "I spoke to him last night. He's right here in town, remember?" 

"Leo and I do our level best to forget that." Josh kept going at the same purposeful stride, dodging people in the halls and fax machines against the walls, but he didn't seem to have much of a set destination in mind. 

Donna had noticed that oddity. "I suppose I should be grateful for a spot of exercise, Josh, but I can't patrol the streets with you all day. I've still got a lot of your old work to do..." 

"So you're gonna just abandon me on my beat and not watch my back, huh?" He made it sound like they were police partners riding herd on a tough section of town. Which, at times, they almost felt like they were. 

"Hey, you were the one who reassigned me." They were already headed back towards reception, without having accomplished anything obvious during this tour - except to re-establish the grounding factor in both of their lives. 

"Matter of fact, I wasn't. If it had been up to me, I'd have stuck you in a cloning tank first." This time Josh slowed enough to look his startled assistant in the eye. His own vision twinkled roguishly. "The idea of more than one Donna Moss running around here is pretty frightening, but I sure could use two or three of you right now. There's just too much on the go." 

She frowned. "Well, thanks for offering me such a scientific distinction, but I do _not_ want to end up like Dolly the sheep." 

"What - you don't want to be fawned over and catered to?" 

She raised an eyebrow. "I thought that's what _you're_ for." 

"Oh, sure." He accompanied her almost all the way to her new desk, then did an abrupt about-face and marched straight back out again, in effect dropping her off cold. 

Donna stared after him. Depending on just how one interpreted his tone on that parting shot, he could have been acting totally flippant about the thought of catering to her... or learning of this requirement for the first time... or in full agreement with it all along. 

"What was that about?" Nancy asked innocently. 

Donna pursed her lips. "Psychological counseling, I think." She couldn't say for sure who had counseled whom. Yet, somehow, the day suddenly felt a bit more normal. 

Josh hadn't gone far before he ran across another person vital to his internal sense of balance. "Yo, Sam!" 

Sam slowed down so that his best friend could catch up. "How's it going?" 

"About what you'd expect." 

"Uh-oh. 'Nuff said." Sam perused files as he walked, avoiding collisions in mid-corridor with uncanny skill. All of the Senior Staff learned this trick early in their careers here. 

Josh made an attempt at small talk. "Donna's getting to like her new placement." He sounded like he was _trying_ to sound casual and unbothered... and not succeeding. 

Sam didn't glance up, but he grinned. "I knew you shouldn't have given her a taste of power. Want to borrow Cathy?" 

"Um, I don't think so. I need her to keep you in line, since I'm not free to do it myself now." The Deputy Chief of Staff said that as factually as could be. 

"Dream on." The Deputy Communications Director sighed, still reading. "You tired?" 

His pal shrugged blithely. "Nah, I'm terrific. You?" 

"Likewise." Sam closed the dossier. His eyes looked more than a bit bleary. "So, what else should we lie about?" 

"You know, I say we skip the Hay-Adams and just turn the OEOB into dorms instead. It's even closer, and it'd put the place to a much more productive use anyway." 

It was perfectly natural for these two best buddies to pull together, to take a moment in the most difficult times and buck each other up with their mutual tastes in humor. Today, however, far more than usual, that humor sounded strained. 

Mention of the imposing government building right next door to the White House killed what little amusement Sam had been enjoying. "Hoynes was in earlier." 

Josh rolled his eyes. "I know." Clearly he didn't welcome that subject change. 

Sam caught his friend's arm, and they both stopped in the middle of the road, ignoring the other employees who parted to either side like river water flowing around stones. 

"What do you think is going to happen?" 

Now _that_ was a loaded question. 

Josh reflected that expression of dismay right back. "Don't ask me until this is over." He had worked for Hoynes once; the experience didn't increase his confidence. 

Sam watched in silence as his pal turned and left. 

Having failed to find much comfort in _that_ friend, Josh sought out his next choice. He knocked on the door of the Press Secretary's office. 

CJ waved him in, then returned her full attention to her phone. Her hard tone conveyed a scowl that the other party couldn't see. "Well, you make sure it _never_ happens again, either for this crisis or any other problems we run into in the future. And if you're really lucky, you won't be getting a call from the Oval Office." 

Josh heard the frantic reply from where he stood six feet off, and couldn't hide a grin. 

She glimpsed that out of the corner of her eye and flashed a smile his way, but her voice didn't let up yet. "All right. Now go on the air and say that." 

She set the receiver down sharply, right in the middle of weak protests, a more effective exclamation point than any other threat she could have made. 

"I'll bet the apologies are pouring in," Josh predicted confidently. 

"I could almost wish I got more chances to twist arms like this." CJ leaned back with a self-satisfied smirk. "It's fun to flex your muscles once in a while. I can understand why you fight to be let off your leash more often." 

"Yeah. I'm not at all sure what scared them more: you _or_ the President." 

Her raised eyebrow told him she wasn't falling for the compliment. These two felt like virtual siblings most of the time; neither could pull something over the other. 

Josh shifted. "Uh, speaking of whom..." 

CJ detected the mood change at once, nodded solemnly and leaned forward onto her desktop, shoving newspaper clippings aside. "I dropped in on Charlie a few minutes ago. Right now it seems he has less of a fight on his hands than we all expected. The President has been taking his meals, and his medications." 

"Wow." That didn't sound like a Chief Executive on the brink of emotional destruction. Especially a Chief Executive as stubborn as theirs tended to be. 

She removed her glasses, and massaged her eyes. "He's holding on, and he knows that if he'd gonna _keep_ holding on he has to stay strong. He can't afford to let his health go." 

That statement cut both ways, of course: considering how easily his health _could_ go, and considering the colossal repercussions if it did. 

Josh ran a hand through his tousled hair. "Good. Still, it's one thing to force yourself to eat. Five will get you ten he hasn't slept a wink." 

CJ's head moved sideways, just once. 

"Charlie must be almost dead on his feet by now." 

"Almost." She exhaled wearily. "I'm trying to talk him into a break." 

A fresh grin tugged at his mouth. "Since when are you the den mother around here?" 

"Since day _one_ , Josh!" CJ threw him a look of sheer exasperation. Between her gender, her high position and her compassionate nature, she'd been practically typecast into that niche when this team first came together. "Besides, it's not like there's anyone else available for the role right now. Leo's wearing thin, too." 

The truth to that crashed down between them. Normally, no one tried to handle Jed Bartlet. No one, that is, except his best friend, his wife... and his late secretary. 

Outside, Sam cruised by en route to the office of the Director of Communications. 

"Ginger." The assistant pivoted in her chair. "You seen Toby?" 

"Many times." Ginger didn't prolong the joke; this was not a good day for one-liners. "Most recently, in his office." 

" _Finally_. I've been chasing him all over the West Wing." 

"Well, he's cornered now." 

"Cornered animals bite hard," Sam muttered, but he braved the threshold anyway. 

His boss was rummaging through shelf after shelf on the back wall in an aggressive search for something. The escalating violence indicated that his target continued to elude him. 

"Toby." 

" _No_." He neither turned nor paused. 

Sam gathered his nerve. This mood would unease just about anyone. "Can I just -" 

"I didn't summon you, so go away." 

Perseverance is a virtue. So is humor. "I heard that you scared the daylights out of Senator Kallio this morning. Where do I sign up for lessons?" 

Without looking, Toby pitched a handful of papers over his shoulder. His deputy had to step sideways to dodge them. They fluttered towards the floor. 

Jokes didn't work; neither did flattery. Perhaps a direct appeal to professional pride? "Listen, I could really use some advice -" 

"I honestly could _not_ care less right now. I'll proofread whatever you want - _after_ this next meeting with Greber is over. Assuming I manage to walk into the meeting less than totally unprepared. Now get lost." 

Sam gave up and retreated. There was just no talking with the man right now; this went far beyond even his regular surliness. 

Ginger and Bonnie watched the younger man depart, then traded a glance of sympathy. 

Moments later, Toby burst out of his office, trailing papers behind him like leaves in a gale. He utterly ignored the two secretaries and launched himself at their filing cabinets, too single-minded to take anyone else into account or spend the breath explaining what he needed. 

This time the glance they traded was pure determination. 

"Damn it, where the hell is that report on -" Toby spun around, frustrated to the point of road rage... and stopped short, the rest of his rant dying unsnarled. His two assistants had quietly come up behind him, and now stood really rather close. So close, in fact, that he couldn't leave this spot, hemmed in by them, two desks and a printer table. 

"Out of my way." His voice lowered dangerously. 

Bonnie crossed her arms. "Not until you promise to let us help you." 

He disregarded that ultimatum and took a threatening step forward, fully expecting them to give ground before his mere presence. 

Neither woman moved an inch. He had to brake before he physically banged into someone. 

" _I don't need your help_ ," he ground out. 

Ginger smiled. "Of course you don't. You can run this whole White House all by yourself." 

So did Bonnie. "Sure. We're just part of the decor, after all." 

His eyes spat sparks. "For the last time -" 

"Considering what you usually put us through, I think we have a right to object when things exceed the normal job hazards," Bonnie mused calmly. 

"Not that we'd actually try to change you, even if we could, since that mean streak of yours yields such great results," Ginger went on in the same level tone. 

"But we do have a right to object when someone tries to take our jobs away from us." 

"The fact is, we know this part of the office better than you do. So why don't you use some of the resources at hand?" 

Toby's smoldering gaze flicked back and forth between these two fronts of a completely unexpected mutiny. The quiet became oppressive, like a bomb ticking down its last seconds to triple zero. 

He couldn't deny that they were right. The strain of this whole situation had driven his temper dangerously into the red zone. But no matter how personally he took the First Lady's abduction, no matter how much he burned to shut down the politicians who distracted him from the _real_ issue, he still shouldn't brush aside his very valuable assistants. They had no other vent themselves, and they deserved to contribute as well. 

Looking right at them, actually seeing them, he saw the same worries - and the same dedication - that rode his forehead every moment of this day. 

True to character, Toby Ziegler did not apologize. Not in so many words. He let out one slower breath, no more. 

"I need the latest bill on the WTO, and the published regulations from Foreign Affairs." 

And just like that, the feminine wall before him parted. 

"You got it," Ginger promised, grinning a bit. 

"We know just where they are," Bonnie said confidently, and made a beeline for a different cabinet than the one her boss had selected on his own. 

He hesitated, then stalked past in an attempt to recover his fierce attitude, not offering any thanks, not looking back. 

"Toby." 

He checked. CJ leaned against the jam to her office nearby. She must have witnessed the entire episode. 

He was about to brush on past and vanish into his own sanctum before his self-esteem took any more of a beating, but the Press Secretary's head jerk invited him to join her instead. He sighed to himself and decided to comply anyway, reluctance in every stride 

CJ knew better than to refer to that cute moment in time... although her vision twinkled with the effort to resist just such a comment. "I thought it might ease your mind a bit to know that every network has logged a formal apology." 

That really did not help Toby's simmering bad humor much at all. "They'd better do the same on the air and live, before I knock on their studio doors _personally_." 

"Already seen to." She tried not to look smug. "Sorry if that denies you the anticipated highlight of your day." 

He paused, then shrugged. "I'm sure I'll get over it. Anything else?" 

"Yeah, I've also heard from Danny." CJ leaned against the front of her desk. She did not need notes for this report. "He's drafted a couple of his personal friends on other major papers. So far we've got the Post, USA Today and WorldNews. They're all going to concentrate on the human angle and give the DSA short shrift. And they've agreed to pass on any _dis_ -information we want to circulate - just as long as they themselves know in advance that it's a blind." 

Toby scratched idly at his neck. "What's all this gonna cost us?" 

"They haven't exactly specified their hearts' desire, yet. I did draw the line at an exclusive with the First Lady." CJ's features tightened at the offensive thought of using Abbey Bartlet for media currency. 

Toby agreed with a curt nod. "We can afford anything else." Pause. "The next briefing?" 

She shrugged dispiritedly. "I've already fielded the Twenty-fifth and the grand jury this morning. I don't think there's much else they can raise a stink about... unless the ransom demand breaks, that is." 

He nodded again, even more curtly. "If those maniacs phone in, that's one thing. If it leaks, we'll know who leaked it." 

They shared a grim look. The only person who knew all the details, besides the First Family, the Senior Staff, the Secret Service, the National Security Council, and of course the kidnappers themselves, was John Hoynes. 

In the ensuing pause, Toby tilted his head, studying CJ with a whole new air - a much softer one, something rather unusual for his reputation. 

"You all right?" 

Her head snapped up. She knew exactly what he meant. Her eyes were narrowed points of laser fire. "Don't go there. This is _not_ about me." 

He sighed, looking downright worried... but he knew better than to argue against that tone of voice. CJ had borrowed a page from Jed Bartlet's book on self-defense and erected her own personal barriers, obviously afraid that she wouldn't be able to function otherwise either. Even half a year later, some memories could resurface far too vividly. 

Toby acceded to her wishes. The memories weren't very pleasant for him, either. "Fine." Pause. "If you change your mind, I'm here." 

This time she paused as well, the belligerence subsiding. "I know." 

Less steamed now, yet more glum, Toby turned and walked out. CJ shook her head, admitting to the increased air of depression he'd left behind, then exited her office in turn. Work was definitely the best antidote to uncomfortable recollection. 

"Carol, could you get me the Vice President's office, please?" 

Her assistant swiveled around at once. "Sure thing. Oh, I've arranged for video copies of all those mega-offensive broadcasts from last night, and they'll make copies of today's, too. Just in case." 

CJ stopped and looked at her. "Just in case we need evidence that telephone apologies don't stand up on film," she added slowly as the light dawned. 

Carol tried to act nonchalant. "If you're going to apply leverage, you need the lever." 

The Press Secretary started to grin. "You're good." 

"Blame yourself for these devious thoughts," Carol returned merrily. "You taught me." 

"A little too well, I think. I'd better start watching my flanks." 

"Sounds like Hoynes had better start watching _his_." Carol picked up the phone. 

"Not _just_ yet. But I should make sure he knows we're thinking of him. Besides, he'd rather get frequent reports that nothing's changed rather than wonder if something _has_ happened and we're just not admitting it. His Chief of Staff will do." CJ returned to her desk, switching from attack mode to diplomacy. You can usually catch more flies with honey than with a swatter. 

Sam showed up minutes later. "CJ. Got a second?" 

On the verge of dialing out herself, she replaced the receiver instead. "Well, so far I've chewed out half the TV producers in town and just reassured Hoynes' people that we're not plotting dark deeds against him - for now. I think I deserve a second's break." 

"Thanks." Sam almost crept in, his usual self-confidence noticeably absent. Whatever he had on his mind, it wasn't business. Even when on the losing end of a debate, he always clung to his enthusiasm and persistence. No administration should wallow in its shortcomings. This one simply couldn't - not with Sam's buoyancy around. 

CJ gave him her undivided attention, waiting for whatever bothered him so to surface. 

He reached her visitor's chair, but didn't sit down. "I just... have this overwhelming need. Not to write, but to _talk_." 

His unusual choice of words might have surprised her a little, but her reaction surprised him even more. She actually smiled. "I think I can guess about what - and it's about time. I'm sick of dancing around the main subject, too." 

He frowned. "You could've brought it up yourself." 

CJ let out an unladylike snicker. "Sam, the last thing a woman should talk about around here is her feelings. You may not think so, but there's still way too much gender bias. Someone else has to bring it up first." 

He considered this. "So you owe me." 

"We'll see. _You_ get to go first." 

Sam hesitated, then exhaled. "Maybe I'm getting to be a bigger pessimist than Toby." 

Her eyebrows shot skyward. "That bad?" 

His hands fidgeted. "I just can't shake this fear - that the First Lady's... already dead." 

There, he'd said it: the one thing no one else in this whole building had dared to put into words. 

CJ didn't shush him, didn't immediately insist that he was wrong, didn't even blink. 

"You too, huh?" 

"Let's face it. The DSA has no intention of contacting us again, not even to prove to us that she's still alive. Whether they're trapped in DC or completely free, they can't move around much with such a recognizable hostage - and they can't hide forever." His breath and his sentences came faster. "Suppose the President agreed to their terms and resigned. He couldn't _un_ -resign afterwards, whether they produced her or not. If they're intelligent at all, they'd kill her now and leave us all wondering for the rest of our lives." 

Sam suddenly ran out of black images to project and fell silent, almost shaking where he stood. Now that he'd detailed the worst-case scenario, it was certainly ordained to come true. 

CJ studied him, her head canted sideways a few degrees. Then, "Boy, you must've polled the entire office. I don't think there's a point you missed." 

He was too stressed to joke right now. Not on this. 

She leaned back. "Okay, rebuttal time. I personally am certain they'll keep her for some time yet. First off, they must know about the search, and if they get cornered she's the only barter they have. Besides, I'll lay big odds they're expecting the very compromise you suggested yesterday. Remember? About the President publicly promising to resign after his wife is released." 

"Aw, they'd never believe such an obvious offer!" 

CJ shrugged. "The President said it himself: he's already shaken the nation's trust in him once. He can't do it again. If he goes live and swears he'll quit, he'll have to do just that. No option, no matter what the reason." 

Sam scrubbed a hand over his eyes. "But what makes the kidnappers think that _we_ think we can trust them that far?" 

"They left Agent Reilly alive, when they could have killed her easily. They've given the President every reason to hope that he will get his wife back... if he does what they want." 

"Except that he _can't_." 

CJ sighed. "If the DSA knew that as well as we do, they never would've tried this." 

After a few somber heartbeats, the Deputy Communications Director planted both hands on the chair back and let his shoulders slump. "Whether he does or doesn't... this'll ruin him." 

The Press Secretary didn't agree aloud, but neither did she deny it. "Unless the Secret Service gets there first." Her mouth firmed. "And believe me, they _will_." 

After all, they had for _her_. 

Torn between ever-threatening despair and a tiny glimmer of renewed confidence, Sam wandered out of her office. That talk had cheered him up only so much. 

He raised his eyes... just in time to glimpse an unidentifiable male figure turning the far corner of the bullpen and disappearing from sight. 

Sam's brain automatically processed that image, curious despite himself. The height had been too short for Toby. The hair had been too dark for Leo. The shoulders had been too broad for Josh. The stride had been all wrong for a Service agent - 

And every person in the Communications area was motionless and silent. 

Sam reached the only obvious conclusion, and blanched. 

"Cathy... tell me that wasn't..." 

His assistant turned, her own eyes wide. Confirming the very worst possibility. He paled the rest of the way to dead white. 

Cathy lifted helpless palms. "I'm sorry, Sam. He just showed up. I couldn't warn you." 

"And he heard the whole conversation." The President of the United States had stood there while one of his closest operatives listed all the reasons why the First Lady's abductors should murder her at once. 

For a moment Sam staggered, horrified at the pain he must have caused. 

"I gotta go apologize." 

"Sam, don't." 

"I gotta say _something_. Not that any words could possibly undo..." 

" _Sit down_ , Sam!" Cathy caught his elbow and physically shoved him into the nearest chair. He stared up in shock - at what he'd just done, and at what _she'd_ just done. 

She planted both hands on the chair arms, trapping him there, and brought her nose to within a few inches of his, forcing him to look right at her. "Now listen to me. You did nothing wrong. Every person around here has been thinking exactly the same thing all along. Including the President. All you did just now was air his fears... and then you let CJ shed some hope. Don't pursue it any further, or you'll only _undo_ that hope." 

Several seconds elapsed while Sam just sat there in a daze, caught squarely between his guilt and Cathy's common sense, trying desperately to think. Maybe she was right. Maybe he should apologize later. When the initial anguish had faded a bit, for _both_ men. 

Maybe... 

The door between the Chief of Staff's office and the Oval Office eased open a bit, and Leo put his head through. The ovoid chamber was empty. He muttered to himself and strode through it, exiting via reception. 

Nancy and Donna occupied their new desks, working away as furiously as ever. Both nodded at him, too busy to do more. Charlie occupied the single free chair, staring out the window, expecting his executive charge back at any moment. 

Leo shook his head. The kid was wilting in his seat. Of course, he hadn't slept any more than Leo had, or the President himself. Equally clearly, he had pledged himself to carry on anyway, to be available when Bartlet needed him - whenever that might be. They sure hadn't hired a quitter. 

"Charlie." 

He jumped, having missed Leo's quiet arrival altogether. 

"You've got two choices: you can hit my office and get some sleep, or you can go _home_ and get some sleep. Your decision - but you're going to make it right now." 

The personal aide to the President turned this mandate over in his exhaustion-clogged brain a few times. The synapses were so sluggish that they could be followed with the naked eye. 

Finally, he gave in and rose. "Okay, I'll take your offer." 

Leo's nod contained a large dose of relief. "Good. Leave him to me." The number of times White House staff referred to their elected leader solely by pronouns would offend a grammar expert and appall a stickler for protocol, but around here such usage identified only one person - just one level down from deity. "Where is he now?" 

"Uh..." Charlie scanned his stumbling brain cells. "He went to speak to Toby. Or - was it CJ?" 

"It's all right, I get the idea. Come on." Leo threw a glance at the two women watching them. "Let me know if the President sneaks off anywhere else." 

Once in the Chief of Staff's office, Charlie made for the couch with no further prodding. Still, his sense of duty persevered. "I still want to be here if you need me." 

"I've pulled my own share of all-nighters," Leo assured him confidently, gathering up a collection of files. "Relax. If we're lucky, we won't need you for the rest of the day." If only the President would sleep as well... 

Charlie stretched out with a sigh. "You'll have to be _real_ lucky," he murmured through his growing drowsiness, long familiar with their leader's obstinacy. 

"Tell me something I don't know," Leo grumbled. "I'll also be lucky not to catch it from Zoey for working you so hard." He rotated towards the door to the outer office. "Margaret! Keep this door closed, and hold all calls. I'm on guard duty." 

Armed with enough work to occupy him for some time, he headed into the Oval Office... then paused for a glance back. Charlie was already breathing deeply, eyes closed. 

Leo allowed himself an avuncular smile as he slipped out. 

Not long afterwards, the other side to that connecting door opened softly. The Chief of Staff lounged on one of the pattered sofas in the middle of the room, facing the other way, slowly working his way through volumes of briefs. A silent presence stole up behind him, noting the telltale nod to his head as he fought off his own powerful need to recharge batteries. 

"Leo." 

He almost catapulted out of his seat, virtually throwing papers before him. It took a good few gasps to regain control. 

"God, Margaret, you scared six years off my life!" 

His secretary fought down a grin of absolute triumph. How many times had he scared _her_ like that? "You looked like you were about to doze off there." 

"I was not." Scowling, he started gathering documents. 

"You were doing a pretty good imitation in _my_ books." 

"Even if I was, which I _wasn't_ , I think you just cured me of sleep for the next month!" 

"Oops." Margaret looked more chastised at that possibility than she had at his genuine anger. "I kind of defeated my own purpose, then." 

"What are you _talking_ about?" Leo reclaimed his seat and returned to his work, already starting to tune her out. 

She rolled her eyes. "Well, if Charlie needs his sleep, then so do others." 

"I know that. The President has to flake out at _some_ point." 

Margaret folded her arms, abandoning all subtle hints. "So do you." 

He snorted. "The President is six years older than me. If he can hack it, so can I." 

"Oh, wonderful. Male rivalry at its best. Leo -" 

Margaret's growing volume cut off short as the door to reception opened. 

But it wasn't Bartlet. It was Donna - and she appeared more uneasy than ever before. 

"Leo..." 

The Chief of Staff frowned, his concern building at once. "Is the President on his way?" 

"Yes." All right, that eliminated the first catastrophe. "Um... so is Mrs. McNally." 

"Oh, hell." Leo stood quickly, shoving papers aside. "If this had to do with the First Lady, we'd be hearing from the Secret Service, not the NSA. _Now_ what's happened?" 


	11. Other Half of My Soul, The 11

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 11 ~ 

" _Cuba_?" 

Jed Bartlet stood behind his desk, hands planted on its surface and body angled forward, staring at his National Security Advisor in amazement. 

"What in God's name does Castro think he's _doing_?" 

Nancy McNally stood on the blue carpet in front of that desk and didn't so much as twitch. She could be tougher than Abbey Bartlet herself when she really wanted to be. A woman didn't make it onto the Council, much less into the center chair, without a diamond core of resolution. She could handle executive bellowing. 

"Mr. President, I'd give a lot right now to be able to tell you." 

"Well, since you have a degree in almost everything _except_ telepathy, I'll let you get away with it this time." Bartlet had to be exhausted, but he sure didn't sound like it. In fact he didn't even look it, now confronted with a new and totally unanticipated problem. 

"What I _can_ tell you, sir, is that the central government of the Netherlands Antilles, in Willemstad, has been approached with a 'diplomatic overture' from the Cuban regime. At least, that's what Castro is calling it. It was worded a bit strongly for _my_ tastes." 

"In the military we call that a scouting party," Leo said, not fooled by this official terminology. A scout spies on the enemy, searching for aspects to exploit. 

"In business we call it the prelude to a hostile takeover!" Bartlet fumed, thinking along the exact same lines. 

The NSA sighed. "Sir, it's not that serious yet. Castro is just making some noises. He's been quiet longer than normal anyway." 

"When does it _become_ serious?" the President demanded. "Suddenly, out of the blue, after decades of relative stability, envoys drop in on the weakest islands in the West Indies to establish closer international ties with the _strongest_ island. What's next: visits from high-ranking Cuban officials? By definition, those would be flag officers - with a suitable army escort, of course. Does that sound just a bit like an overture to _invasion_ to you?" 

McNally did not back down. In her job she couldn't risk acting too precipitously. "Sir, you're projecting. There isn't one clue to suggest it's anything else but -" 

"And does the local Dutch government _welcome_ this unexpected laurel branch?" 

Pause. "Not really." 

"I thought not. But of course they don't have much choice in the matter. Who else around there does? Castro's the biggest kid on the block, surrounded by dozens of practically defenseless islands that owe no allegiance to him at all. Don't you think he'd leap at the chance to expand his borders if he thought for one moment we'd let him get away with it?" 

This time the NSA held her peace. He had a valid point. 

Leo attempted to diffuse things before their leader burst a blood vessel, or something worse. "Sir, even Castro can't launch a full-scale assault that fast. It'll keep until tomorrow." If he could just get his boss to call it a day... 

"Oh, sure; and it'll be an even _bigger_ problem then. By all means, let's give the man every reason to believe he's within his rights and this time no one'll say boo." Bartlet had no interest in granting the benefit of the doubt to such a one-sided territorial advance by the bully of the Caribbean. "Why do you suppose he picked _now_ to try this stunt?" 

McNally offered a ready answer. It was her task to always provide them. "Castro is dying. He wants one last shot at conquest and glory. Any dictator would." 

"Well, right now is his golden opportunity: when the United States is somewhat preoccupied. Come on, Nancy! These Defenders of a Strong America - " the President's tone dripped sarcasm and loathing "- have provided the perfect distraction. Castro figures that right now we've got better things to worry about... and from your take he'd be right. Hell, all of Europe would probably agree with you. Everyone's far too interested in a US President on the verge of a breakdown to notice a few ripples in Central America." 

Bartlet paused, breathing faster than he should. His eyes flashed blue flame. Neither his National Security Advisor nor his Chief of Staff commented. 

"Well, I'm not waiting until this little development _is_ serious. Leo, get the Cuban ambassador over here ASAP." 

You had to admit, this man really was something when he got all fired up. Leo struggled to hold back a smile. "Yes, sir." 

Nancy McNally _did_ smile. 

"And Leo - make damned sure you tell him to call home first and get all the details before he comes. I'm not taking any of that 'diplomatic channels' crap today!" 

* * *

When the door to the Oval Office swung open, Donna instinctively sprang to her feet, almost banging one knee against the desk in her haste. 

She never showed such deference to Josh's appearance, of course. Not that he held such a minor position in Washington himself; he had earned an impressive reputation of his own in the political sphere. But they were, at the very least, friends. Besides, he relied on her far too heavily to consider her much less than his equal - regardless of how he _treated_ her. 

Working near _this_ chamber was an entirely different concept, and an unnerving one at that. 

Of course it might not be the President himself... but she determined to be prepared just in case - 

It was. He walked out unaccompanied, at a brisk pace, looking even more fierce than usual of late, the air positively sizzling in his wake. 

His attention went first to the other desk, again standing vacant, and he braked short. 

Donna felt a pang, and would have bet that he did as well. Still, she said nothing - just waited to be noticed... or not. 

Bartlet did notice her. He let out a slightly longer-than-normal breath, as though evicting some false hope or expectation, then turned. 

"Donna. Where's - Nancy?" 

She heard the minuscule hesitation as he remembered who occupied that desk now, and struggled not to wince. Some wounds took longer to heal for some people. 

Come to think of it, Mrs. Landingham never snapped to attention when the Commander-in-Chief came along. She had always struck a unique balance between unpretentious respect and unflappable calm. No one among the staff ever figured out how she dared to tell the President off on occasion, or why he let her get away with it every time. 

"Nancy had to step out, sir. She won't be long..." 

Bartlet checked his watch. "Well, I was going to tell you both together, but I don't have a lot of time, so I'll leave you to brief her in turn." 

Donna suddenly felt much more important. "Of course, sir." 

"Good. The Cuban ambassador is on his way over." 

She blinked in no little astonishment. What conceivable reason could be behind this out-of-the-blue interest in the West Indies? Only one option made any sense to her, and she was so surprised that she blurted it out involuntarily. "The kidnappers are in Cuba?" 

The President stared. "What - _no_. Nothing like that." 

Donna flushed crimson at once in self-mortification. "I-I apologize. I spoke totally out of turn." She resolved, yet again, to bridle her tongue. 

"It's okay." Under normal circumstances he might not have waved it away so quickly; but then, she was new to working this closely around the Chief Executive, and bound to be a bit flustered. "Cuba's making some waves. Just a small international diversion I have to iron out on top of everything else." 

She gaped, forgetting all over again her renewed desire to keep quiet. " _Now_?" 

Bartlet refused to be distracted from the main issues today. Such a minor lapse in etiquette didn't even register as a bump under his tires - not when he faced a veritable roadblock. "Yeah. We think Castro wants to see if he can slip under our radar while we're concentrating on... other things. He's trying to open a brand-new 'dialogue' with the Netherlands Antilles." 

Donna would never have expected the President to become so forthright with _her_ on news of this magnitude - but who knew? Maybe he actually welcomed the chance to discuss it with someone not directly involved. Someone... comparatively unimportant. 

If her lack of importance made their discussion possible in the first place, she didn't mind. Hoping she wasn't reading too much into this, Donna decided to risk another comment. "That _does_ sound a bit sudden to be coincidence." 

Coincidence or not, the White House certainly did not need any further additions to their current overdose of anxiety. On the other hand, her leader appeared quite composed - again, except for that frigid glare. 

"And I don't have the luxury of putting it aside until I _feel_ like dealing with it. Give that guy an inch and he'll take half the Caribbean." 

Her muscles tensed. Events could snowball into more than a brief radar blip for sure. 

"I'm telling you all this, Donna, because it's not something we can sweep under the carpet, even if we wanted to. People are going to find out, and they're going to ask questions. You and Nancy need to know what you're in for." 

She nodded quickly. "I'll tell her, sir." 

That meant more diplomatic calls - with far less sympathetic tones this time. How does one placate the incensed representative of a foreign power? 

Mrs. Landingham would have known... but then, _no one_ dared argue with her... 

"Excellent. And send the ambassador in as soon as he gets here. I'm gonna nip this in the bud." Bartlet wore a half-smile, half-snarl that reeked of eagerness to join battle. "Finally, I've got something concrete to hit at." 

No sane person would wish for a war. But the thrill of combat can be a powerful drug indeed. Donna felt it now herself. The President actually seemed to grow taller, braced for the fight, draped in the mantle of awesome political and military power that he had every intention of using if he had to. However, that frightening national strength might not be necessary after all, if his personal one-on-one encounter with a foreign representative proved victorious. 

There was just _something_ about having a hero engage the enemy on your behalf. At this moment Jed Bartlet didn't _need_ the title of the most powerful man in the world. 

"A punching bag might be cheaper, sir," Donna offered lightly, her shyness abating before the remarkably candid attitude he had shown just now. His brief, automatic grin lifted her heart even more. "Still, I have to admit, I'd like to watch you do it." 

Of course, no support staffer would ever be allowed to attend such a crucial meeting... 

The President did not say so. In fact, he said nothing at all. After a moment Donna realized, to her confusion, that he had just - stopped. His face went strangely vacant. 

She frowned. What...? 

Slowly, his head rotated a bit aside, the way one might move when thinking of something totally different, his vision turned inward... 

_Haunted._

Donna recoiled, shocked and dead white in an instant. There could be no other interpretation. Something she just said must have reminded him of a poignant moment with his wife. 

What could that moment have been? How personal? How _painful_? 

"I do like watching you try..." 

The silence seemed to cry out at her in accusation for hurting her leader anew. 

Agonizing seconds passed - then he blinked two or three times, and gave himself a little shake, as though to cast off the demons that refused to let him be. 

"Sir, I am _so sorry_ ," Donna gasped. "I didn't mean to... to do whatever I did..." 

Slowly, he looked at her. The glacial chill had returned to those blue eyes - even colder and harder than before. Shutting out everything and everyone. 

His voice was flat, unemotional. "If anybody calls before the ambassador leaves, the White House has no comment. Leo will give you more details afterwards." 

And with that, Bartlet pivoted and returned to his office, trying very hard to pretend that nothing had in fact happened. 

Donna watched him go, fighting the sob that wracked her chest and the tears that blurred her vision. Not only had she wounded him, however accidentally, but as a result his armor had become more impenetrable than ever. The unworthy question haunting _her_ was, had that armor sealed itself against the world in general, or against her in particular?

* * *

By mid-afternoon, most of the staff had heard the whisper of the Cuban incursion. It seemed incredible that, with the First Lady's abduction still less than twenty-four hours old, the affairs of a petty world insisted on demanding notice. 

When the summoned ambassador did arrive, they all paused to watch him pass. The word was out: the President was at full burn. More than one person would have given their pension to be a fly on the wall... 

Nancy did the honors. "Mr. President, His Excellency the Ambassador to the republic of Cuba." 

Bartlet stepped forward, hand outstretched, his face twisted into a parody of a smile. " _Señor_ Disantis." 

" _Señor Presidente_. A pleasure." The short, thin, dapper gentleman accepted the handshake, bowing with Latin grace. 

"Oh, really? Well, we'll see how long that lasts." Bartlet took a bit of the sting out of that crack by shifting focus. "Thank you, Nancy." He waited until the door closed behind her. "My Chief of Staff, Leo McGarry." 

Disantis merely nodded that way. On his part, Leo did not extend a hand either. 

" _Señor Presidente_ , may I begin by offering the condolences of my country for the terrible situation you face regarding your poor wife." 

All attempts at a halfway friendly dialogue died. First, this guy fairly oozed insincerity. Diplomat he might be, but he was not the greatest actor, and thus did he eliminate all doubt in the minds of his hosts as to the suspicious timing of recent Caribbean events. Second, he sounded more like he was referring to someone already deceased. That could be pardoned on the grounds of on-the-spot translation difficulties, but diplomats aren't supposed to make such rude mistakes. Third, his tone implied that Abbey Bartlet was a mere woman who could not, of course, take care of herself, else why would she have married so powerful a man? Again, not the sort of gaffe an ambassador is expected to permit. 

Leo shook his head ever so slightly, looking quite disgusted. 

The President had never felt inclined to observe the niceties of international protocol today. He abandoned all such play-acting with relief and with alacrity. 

"Then you can understand if I dispense with the rest of the formalities, Mr. Ambassador. Let's talk about your sudden interest in the Netherlands Antilles." 

"But of course. Although I confess to surprise that it is the reason you invited me here. This is but a simple offer of friendship to one of our many neighbors." 

"Oh, sure - the single least protected nationality in the West Indies. I note that you haven't approached any of the British affiliates as well, or the French ones. Or ours." Bartlet cut right to the quick. "Fidel Castro isn't that stupid." 

Disantis frowned at such undiplomatic language. " _Señor Presidente..._ " 

"He isn't. He knows full well that all of his other 'neighbors' have rather powerful friends, even if most of them are on the other side of the Atlantic." 

The ambassador had clearly not been expecting such a verbal offensive. He scrambled for solid ground. "I don't understand -" 

"Then allow me." Bartlet's voice gained strength and momentum. "Great Britain's presence is still very strong in your neck of the woods. Commonwealth members in the Caribbean include six dominions: Jamaica, Grenada, Antigua and Barbuda, St. Vincent and the Grenadines, and St. Lucia; five protectorates: Bermuda, the Turks and Caicos Islands, the Cayman Islands, Monserrat, and the Virgin Isles; and two republics: Dominica, and Trinidad and Tobago. The only other entities around are the Bahamas and Puerto Rico - which are ostensibly ours - a few tiny French island territories... and the Netherlands Antilles." He rattled off these details without hesitation or effort, then paused for the final thrust. "And Cuba." 

Disantis looked completely off-balance, with no idea where this was going. 

"The end result is that every single island in that sea boasts a direct link to a major world power... except the Netherlands Antilles, and you. So you can see why I took notice when one started to crowd the other." 

"Crowd? Now that is not what we're -" 

The best defense is a strong offense. "In case you're not aware of it yourself, Cuba is considered by the rest of the world to be pretty much America's responsibility. No one else is both close enough and strong enough for the job. Now just because we're stronger than you doesn't mean that we relax our guard, and just because we have other problems to deal with doesn't mean we're going to tolerate any funny business - now or ever." 

Leo stood still and enjoyed the sight. Clearly the President's mental anguish was only driving him to even tougher measures than he would under normal circumstances have instituted with this pugnacious island dictatorship. Physically he did not move, did not posture, did not make any visible attempt to intimidate. The burning chill in his eyes, the stony cast to his features, the very force of his personality did that just fine. 

"Let me put it this way, Mr. Disantis: I'm not having the best of days, and as a result I'm just looking for someone to take my bad mood out on." Bartlet's hands were fists. "Has Castro forgotten October of 1962? That little missile crisis he himself instigated? Well, your incursion today also has the potential of leading to a major upset in the balance around here... and right now I don't think I can command the same restraint that Kennedy did back then." 

Disantis went as ashen as his skin color permitted. This time, Cuba did not have the nuclear weapons with which to shoot back. 

Could his host _possibly_ mean what he said? 

Bartlet drew away, allowing some distance, practically dismissing his guest on the spot. The flare in his vision did not lose much over a few extra feet, though; they all but pinned the ambassador to the wall. "You go back to your embassy, get on the horn at once, and tell _El Presidente_ that _this_ 'Presidente' is giving him twenty-four hours to climb back into his own sandbox... or else I'll relocate him myself." 

As a rule, Fidel Castro did not bluff. 

As an even more reliable rule, Josiah Bartlet didn't either. Both men witnessing this did not think for one moment that he was bluffing now. No one could have managed to sound more dead serious. 

* * *

Josh avoided reception this time and went directly to Leo's office. 

"Hey, Margaret." Then, as she opened her mouth, "Before you say anything, I already have enough to do, thank you." 

The secretary deflated. "Well, I _was_ just going to say 'hello,' but fine." 

He grinned. "Leo's in?" The inner office door was closed. 

"Yes, but you can't see him." 

"Oh." Josh reached the obvious conclusion. "Big meeting, huh?" 

"Is it ever: with Morpheus." 

His brows descended in confusion. "He's watching The Matrix?" 

Margaret gave a tolerant sigh. "Not _that_ Morpheus - the Greek original. Sheesh, Josh, what did your elementary school teach you, anyway?" 

A wide smile spread across the Deputy Chief of Staff's face. "He's sacked out? Okay, I want a picture. How on earth did you manage it?" 

"I said I would either drug his coffee or clock him with the hole-punch." Margaret sounded disturbingly deadpan, as though she meant every word. 

"Next time, record your conversation. I know people who'd pay big money for the tape." Josh shared a conspiratorial wink with his boss's assistant. 

"I'll consider it." Her expression became almost devilish. "So, now that you have more time than you thought..." 

"No way. I'm gone." He exited practically at a run before she could heap more work on him. 

The corridors of the West Wing remained as crowded as ever, especially with the increased number of Service agents on patrol - 

"Josh." 

He braked dead, right outside the Oval Office, then turned. "Yes, Mr. President?" 

"Come on in for a sec." Bartlet beckoned him through the hall door he'd just opened. 

Josh fought down an unfamiliar reluctance and obeyed. The whole staff had been granting their leader even more space than usual, so as not to bother him any more than they had to... and also very much afraid that one of them might involuntarily repeat Donna's distressing experience. The grapevine had spread _that_ news flash in a hurry - out of honest concern, not maliciousness or idle interest - making Josh feel doubly sorry for his assistant. 

"Leo still sleeping?" the President asked as he led the way to his desk. 

"I - believe so, sir. Margaret seems to have him in hand." 

"Good. I almost had to have the Secret Service haul him out by force. I think he and Charlie have started their own version of Survivor, wondering which one could last longer." 

Josh sneaked a glance at the personal aide seated to one side. He looked wider awake than the last time Josh saw him. Almost all staff regularly in close contact with their Commander-in-Chief had long ago mastered the art of the power nap. Charlie waggled one eyebrow, like Leo fully resolved to be here for the long haul, regardless of executive disapproval. 

From the looks of it, both had lost out to the man they had both been so determined to outlast together. 

"Well, sir, I know _one_ way to solve the problem -" 

Bartlet spun around, all joviality gone. "Don't you start, too, Josh." Sleep was still not an option for _him_. "Now what's on your plate?" 

The Deputy Chief of Staff shuffled his feet. "Not a whole lot different from what I had earlier. Margaret's given me a lot of Leo's things. I'm just keeping the internal wheels greased, and shunting whatever meetings and admin stuff I can. Everything's smooth enough for the time being. Nothing you need to spend time on, sir." 

The whole point behind delegation of duties and distribution of responsibility is to free up leaders so that they can actually lead. This kind of backstage minutia was beneath the attention of a President in a national crisis, let alone a personal one. Of course he'd just pass it off and trust that his people were doing the excellent job they always did. 

"Administration!" Bartlet exploded in a wave of sudden rage. "Oh, yes, by all means let's not neglect that vital aspect to bureaucracy!" He wrenched away, fury building fast. "It galls me no end as to how much time and effort I'm forced to waste on such trivial topics while _lives_ hang in the balance!" 

Josh stepped back, in genuine fear - and for more reasons than one. The President's self-control was starting to deteriorate... 

He had to neutralize the moment somehow. Anything to help his boss regain some calm. He just hoped any such effort wouldn't make things even worse. 

"Well, sir, that's exactly what happens when you try to run a government. Administration is just one of those required evils we have to put up with if we're going to function at all." 

That sounded like it came straight out of Political Science 101, and Jed Bartlet had been in politics far longer than Josh Lyman. Such a simplistic comment could be taken as patronizing or downright insulting. The younger man held his breath, braced for a blistering attack - verbal or otherwise. 

The President fell silent, teeth bared, respirations accelerated, head tilted back as though appealing to Heaven for assistance. Then, slowly, he turned around again. 

Josh tried not to shrink away, just waiting, for... what? 

"You're right." 

Josh's breath leaked out slowly. 

"There's not much we can do about that side of government, except endure it. I'll save my strength for fighting more worthy opponents." 

Josh couldn't prevent a quick grin this time. "Permission to join you in battle, sir." All at once he was positively chafing at the bit to dive into combat with both fists swinging. He needed only one word from this man to do so. 

Bartlet sized him up and down for a moment... and nodded. "Come to think of it, in a way battle is another necessary evil, isn't it? And you're probably the best fighter on the parole, Josh. Let's make a point of backing each other up - and just maybe we can restrain each other, too. Where needed." 

This time Josh's smile beamed. "Mr. President, you've got yourself a deal." 


	12. Other Half of My Soul, The 12

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 12 ~ 

The image of the First Lady's limousine rolled off the TV screen, gaining speed every second. On the ground where it had been parked, where its long shadow no longer fell, the street lamps now revealed two strange, dark bundles on the pavement... 

Colleen Reilly shut off the VCR and fought down a shudder. 

Ron Butterfield faced her, perched on the corner of his desk. "Anything else you want to add to your report?" 

She ran an unsteady hand through her long copper hair - no longer tied back - and straightened her casual blouse in a nervous motion. Finally, she shook her head. "No, sir. The video doesn't help me there." She paused, breathing carefully. "I'm glad I now know exactly what happened... but it still hurts." 

Ron nodded once, articulate for all his brevity. "I know what you mean." The Secret Service was a close-knit cadre; it had to be, if it were to function effectively where the smallest mistakes cost lives - theirs _and_ others. 

Colleen shifted in her seat: shifting back into professional mode. "So. Where can I pitch in on this?" 

Her boss frowned. "I'm not sure you should." 

"Oh, _don't_ tell me I'm too close to this to be trusted!" She leaned forward, all but pleading. "I _have_ to take part, if only to make up in some way for my failure!" 

"Not so," a third voice interjected. 

Ron's head bobbed up; Colleen's whipped around. Then, in swift unison, they rose and stood at attention. 

"Mr. President," the coordinator of White House security greeted their chief protectee with the usual deference. Still, his career wasn't on the line... 

Bartlet raised a palm. "At ease, both of you. I just thought I'd drop by." 

Ron relaxed somewhat. Colleen did not. 

Their leader took a couple of steps into the small office, barely glancing toward the female agent at all. She didn't move, feeling ignored... feeling like she _deserved_ to be ignored. 

"I've been wanting to get the names of the two agents who died last night. The very least I can do is speak to their families." 

A lot of people wouldn't even think about condolences for the relatives of people they'd never known, never even met. This President always was big-hearted like that. He took the Service's job as seriously as they did. Even while he agonized over his wife's uncertain survival, he remembered those engaged in safeguarding it. 

However, here he projected not the slightest quiver of emotion himself. He could have been discussing a flower bouquet rather than the violent death of two people who were trained to protect his wife - and whose best had not sufficed. 

Neither agent before him thought his flat, dispassionate attitude odd. They, too, knew the benefits of blocking out human feelings and concentrating fully upon the task at hand. It freed the mind to work. 

Ron nodded in his usual precise manner. "Yes, sir. I'll get you that information." 

"Thanks." Now a glimmer of sadness did peek through... a sadness not as directly connected to a husband's deepest torment, and thus more safely expressed - or less tightly controlled. "I really hate making these calls." 

Silence. 

Then Bartlet lifted his eyes, those terrifyingly cold eyes, and fastened them on Colleen. She shrank backwards, seared by their intensity. 

She'd seen him many times before, while guarding his wife, and often up close - but her role was to fade into the background and not attract attention. He'd only spoken to her once before... when he temporarily reassigned her to protect CJ Cregg six months ago. 

That moment had been a piece of cake compared to this: now Reilly was supposed to explain to him how she had failed in her sacred duty - with regard to the First Lady herself. 

"How are you feeling?" His voice was level enough. 

His consideration did not calm her at all. She could say so many different things, whether she wanted to sound strong, apologetic, or just awed. 

She chose the brutal truth. "Sick at heart, sir." 

Amazingly, the President didn't jump down her throat. He certainly had every right to do so. Instead, to her wonder, his eyes thawed somewhat. 

"Because you couldn't prevent this, huh? Look, you had no possible way of knowing that that limo was anything other than the very safest place for the First Lady, just as it always has been in the past. But you feel guilty all the same. Fine. You can stop any time now." 

"Yes, sir." Colleen was not convinced, but at least she tried to sound convinced. If it would ease his personal hell to believe she felt better, then she'd lie through her teeth. 

He wasn't convinced, either. "And of course you're also blaming yourself because you didn't get your chance to die in my wife's defense, like those other two heroes." 

Her features went slack. _How_ could he possibly know _that_? 

Ron's mustache twitched, as though fighting a smile. 

Bartlet's expression hadn't changed - he still looked furious at the self-proclaimed DSA and the world at large. Yet there was a solid earnestness in his voice that contained more than a smidgen of comfort... comfort intended for her alone. 

"I want you to disabuse yourself of that idea right now. I couldn't care less about that old 'death or dishonor' drama. There's no disgrace in living to tell the tale. Your dying wouldn't have prevented anything, and it _would_ have deprived this organization and my family of a valued employee. My wife and I don't get any pleasure out of the risks you people take on our behalf, and it's not as though we're willing to squander bodyguards left and right just so long as we pull through ourselves." He paused solemnly. "I'm glad the kidnappers didn't hurt you. And now you can help us get her back." 

Silence. 

Just as solemnly, Reilly drew herself up. "I will, sir. I swear it. Those terrorists made a serious error in _not_ killing me when they had the chance." 

The President flickered a grin - whether amused by her enthusiasm or agreeing with her assessment, she couldn't tell. 

"Good. You are now free to forgive yourself." For one moment he sounded very much like the priest he almost became... before meeting a certain woman named Abigail. "You do not need any forgiveness from us." 

* * *

Sam stuck his head around the doorframe to the Chief of Staff's outer office. "Margaret?" 

She looked up, and blinked at his peculiar posture. "What _are_ you doing?" 

He stepped fully into view, carrying the usual file and wearing the usual smile. "Well, I heard that Leo's actually taking a break, and I didn't want to disturb him. Does the floor here creak? My floor creaks. Or just how soundproof is his door? Mine _isn't_." 

She had to grin; he could be so cute at times. "Sam, it might not have been your intention, but you just lightened my day a few degrees, and I really appreciate it." 

He tried to look innocent and pleased at the same time, which is almost impossible to do. "Hey, I try. Glad I pulled it off for once." 

Margaret forced herself to break the mood before she burst out laughing. "Unfortunately, Leo's up and about - and not here." 

Sure enough, he completely deflated. "Oh. Well, I guess that means I should put the camera away." 

"I guess you'd better. But you're welcome to wait for him." She sighed. "Lately no one's had time to _visit_." Meaning no one came here to see _her_. 

"I shouldn't hang around," Sam admitted, in the weak tone that indicated he would anyway. "I think I've forgotten what a break feels like. I've been jammed into high gear all day." 

Margaret shot him a glance of disdain. "Weenie. I have that feeling _every_ day." 

"And I thought working for Toby was bad." 

A gentle quiet settled around them, not at all in keeping with the atmosphere of the present. 

"So, how's the President doing?" That was not Sam's attempt at small talk. 

Margaret looked up again... and paused. 

"I - don't think we should be having this conversation right now, Sam." 

Odd; that subject could hardly be considered sensitive material. "Why not?" 

Her gaze moved uneasily past him. "Because your boss is standing right behind you." 

Sam rolled his eyes and started to revolve. "Figures. Look, Leo, I'm just asking. I'm worried about him, too, you -" 

And his words stopped as though someone had hit the "mute" button. Far too late, he realized that Margaret had said "your boss," not "our boss." 

The President confronted this deer-in-the-headlights expression calmly, looking no angrier than his perpetual stormy self ever since last night. That anger had not abated one bit, but at least it wasn't directed at his staff. 

"Don't mind me, Sam. I'm sneaking up on people all over the place today." 

Actually, this would be the second time in less than six hours that he'd approached the Deputy Communications Director unnoticed... and on both occasions he'd overheard something that Sam would not have willingly repeated to his face. 

Sam was appallingly conscious of that fact. Now he had _two_ reasons to grovel. "I-I'm sorry, sir - about this, and about the other -" 

"Oh, cool it. You're not in my sights, and you never have been." Just like that, Bartlet dismissed the younger man's entire discomfort. "Whatever you were planning to show Leo no doubt involves me, so I might as well see it now." 

"Of course, sir." His leader made no move to change locales in favor of his own office, so Sam handed over his file on the spot. "A draft of a possible address." 

"Riiiight." That one word came out like a sigh. The President produced his reading glasses, settled them into place, inhaled one long, careful breath... and began to read. 

No clock in this area ticked audibly, like the one on the mantelpiece next door, yet a pounding pulse can do just fine as a substitute. Neither Sam nor Margaret moved at all. That document put into words everything that the staff and the President himself had avoided all day. Now these two waited in gut-twisting silence as their Commander-in-Chief perused it, waiting for his reaction. Both were acutely conscious of the torture it would certainly inflict. 

Whatever gaping wounds must have been further abraded, Bartlet did not admit it. He stood so still that he could have been carved from rock, much like the timeless Man in the Mountain symbolizing his home state. The sole indication was another long breath, this one somewhat uneven, as he finished. 

"Very good. It'll be almost too bad if we _don't_ use it." Somehow, his voice didn't quaver. "You worked hard on this, Sam. I can tell." 

"Thank you, sir." Sam felt no particular pleasure in such praise. The icy flame had finally been banked in the President's eyes, in fact almost smothered... by suffering. 

He pressed on; anything rather than continue to gaze into that well of anticipatory grief. "Did you notice how much care the kidnappers used in the wording of their own note? Sure, they came across as all holier-than-thou, but they seriously believe what they said. We've got to believe _our_ words even more. I wasn't going to make less of an effort." 

Bartlet gave a sharp nod that agreed wholeheartedly for all its curtness. "I'd have insisted on the same thing. I want the focus on our reply, not their demand, just as I want our actions to surpass theirs. I'm _obsessed_ with beating them - in every way possible." 

"You're not the only one, Mr. President." Sam's soft volume still translated directly into an ironclad vow. 

"I never doubted." That visual blaze rekindled, its furnace pressure building, straining for an outlet. "But the first blow is _mine_." 

* * *

"Of course, Sir Anthony." Phone wedged under her chin, Nancy shivered as she wrote down the name of the personage this caller represented. "I'll convey Her Majesty's message at once. Please extend the President's gratitude in turn." Pause. "Yes, we're all praying, too. Thanks very much!" 

She replaced the receiver, smiling a bit in thrilled wonder, added a few more details to the note... and looked up. 

Jed Bartlet stood right before her desk, silent and still. 

A current of pure quicksilver shot straight through her, jerking every muscle taut, but by some miracle she managed not to scream. She hadn't detected his presence at all. 

"You're doing well," he said simply. 

Nancy rose slowly, modulating her breath-rate until she could find her voice again. "T-thank you, sir. How... how long were you standing there?" 

What she really meant was, _How long was I ignoring you?_

The President shrugged. "A lifetime. Not long." 

She nodded even more slowly, in full comprehension of all the subtext to that statement - subtext which ran quite independent of the current crisis. She felt bad just sitting at this desk. It sure didn't help that every time he saw her here, he automatically thought about someone else. Every time, that look went through her like an arrow. 

_This_ time it was Donna who had stepped out, inadvertently leaving her comrade to face their Chief Executive alone. Nancy hoped with all her strength that she wouldn't make a similar blunder and directly remind him of his wife. She already reminded him of his much-beloved secretary, her late supervisor, which was awful enough. 

"Uh, that was Buckingham Palace." She extended the remarkable note with an extra dose of respect. 

"I gathered." Bartlet barely glanced at it before stuffing it into a pocket. The fact that the British ambassador, the British Prime Minister _and_ the British Crown all wished to express their personal support in this emergency testified to the strength of Anglo-American relations... but even a royal missive just didn't deliver the same impact to a man under assault by such relentless personal emotion. 

Of course, when you work directly for the American President, globally acknowledged to be the leader of the free world and the most powerful individual on the planet, other titles have rather less chance of impressing you. Even so, Nancy shivered again. There _were_ other international figures after all, and other nations far older than the United States. 

Bartlet's gaze shifted aimlessly around the reception area, as though looking for something he knew he wouldn't find. He stared for several seconds at the unique flag that still hung on the wall, its stars and stripes all done in bright painted hand-prints... and then at the corner of the desk, where a large crystal cookie jar always used to be... 

His new (temporary?) secretary knew that the said cookie jar now stood in a place of untouchable honor on a shelf inside the Oval Office. 

Why did it astonish so many people that the President had seen fit to attend the funeral of an administrative employee? Despite the location of her desk, and the deference she herself received, Mrs. Landingham had been classified only as secretarial. Still, other bosses at all levels of business got to know their colleagues personally. What made this high office any different? Yet many seemed to believe that the man possessing such extreme national power should be above friendships with rank and file staffers. After all, this death did look insignificant in the greater scheme of things, and the President had the whole world to worry about every day. So important a person is not _really_ human; he doesn't have _time_ to be human. 

Oh, but Jed Bartlet _made_ the time. He mourned his friend... just as he feared for his wife. 

Nancy had no idea what to say now, but she felt that she had to say _something_. "Sir? Is there anything I can do?" The depths of her query ran far deeper than the words might suggest. 

The President snapped back to himself. He couldn't manage a smile, but at least he didn't turn the full nuclear winter of his tormented vision upon her. 

"Nah. I think I've just got the West Wing equivalent of cabin fever." 

Nancy could well understand that. Even as a mere assistant to his secretary before, she'd witnessed her share of long days and nights around here. 

None of them had compared to _this_ day and night and day again. 

His next comment startled her. "Thanks for all your hard work, Nancy. Now, in particular." 

Trying not to choke on her own emotions, she merely nodded. It stung something awful to even attempt to replace her former supervisor - but the approval of the man who missed Delores Landingham even more than she did went a long way towards easing that hurt. 

Bartlet nodded back, the shadows in his eyes darker than ever, and headed into his office. 

Not until the door closed did it occur to Nancy that he might have been searching for something concrete - such as companionship. Even a world leader could feel vulnerable. 

* * *

CJ hurried alone through the halls of the West Wing and into Oval Office reception. 

"Hey, girls," she greeted the two women there. "The President sent for me." 

It still felt _wrong_ to see that desk occupied by anyone except Mrs. Landingham, but she didn't say so. The wounds had to heal eventually. Life goes on. 

Both assistants looked decidedly subdued - more so than ever before. Donna avoided her eye. Nancy just nodded in silence towards the closed door. 

CJ checked, frowning. She knew why Donna still felt so awful, but why Nancy? What bombshell had detonated amongst them _this_ time? Even more concerned now, the Press Secretary passed between and walked into the highest office in the land. 

Bartlet stood before the south windows, gazing out towards horizons unknown. He turned at the sound of her entrance. "CJ." 

"If you'll excuse me, Mr. President." Leo rose from the couch and beat a retreat towards his own office. 

"Yeah, sure, get out of here." His boss stood and watched him go, the merest hint of a wry smile tugging at his mouth. 

CJ watched as well, wondering more than ever what all this was about since it merited such privacy - and she caught the telling look Leo threw at her just before he exited. 

The President exhaled ruefully. "If it's not Charlie following me everywhere, it's Leo imitating a mother hen. What does a guy have to do to get some freedom around here?" 

"Just part of the territory when people care about you, sir." Normally CJ would have had a few off-the-cuff wisecracks for the occasion, but today did not encourage that style. She knew from Leo's parting glance that he wanted her to fetch him again once she left... and that while she remained here, their Commander-in-Chief was her responsibility. 

"Gotta take the wetter with the better, huh? Fine." Bartlet brushed off that entire angle, either missing or ignoring her compliment. "So, let me tell you what's up." 

"News on the DSA?" she asked eagerly. 

"No such luck, I'm afraid." He nodded as her whole posture slumped in disappointment. "I did send the Cuban ambassador packing a little while ago." 

CJ's first reaction was a grin. If they could sell tickets to events like that... Then she sternly reminded herself of her job to worry about how this could play in the media. "And?" 

"And I wanted you right up to date. I know you have another briefing soon." 

She exhaled, a light sigh of relief that she'd been brought in on the ground floor this time. "Thank you, sir." 

The President just nodded again. "I gave Castro one day to draw in his horns." 

CJ _in_ haled this time. "Uh, pardon my saying so, sir - but that kind of ultimatum has the potential to boomerang rather badly. It doesn't necessarily mean that you took the wrong approach. It does make us look like just as much of a bully." 

He pondered her words. "My personal counter to _that_ argument is, I could care less. But of course I _have_ to care." His shoulders heaved in a tired sigh. "Take my advice, CJ: never pick a diplomatic fight when you're pissed at someone else." 

She couldn't help it; even at this grim time, the grin broke through again. "I'll remember that for when I have my next ambassadorial audience, sir." Like she had many. 

Bartlet didn't grin back, as much as admitting that he could have handled _his_ audience better than he did. "Okay. If we do take a hit over this because of my short fuse, I'll deal with it. Not you." 

It was a handsome offer, though an unrealistic one. The Press Secretary still had to stand before the voracious White House Press Corps and the eye of the world, and explain what took place. Even so, CJ knew her leader meant what he said. 

"The important thing, sir, is that no one accuses us of deliberately trying to turn the public eye away from..." She checked, then dodged a more direct reference. "Other things. I'll let you know if anybody lights _that_ fuse. Perhaps it's just as well that you quashed the Cuban issue up front after all." 

The President did not react to her brief hesitation. "Uh-huh. Hopefully the whole thing will be worth only a couple of paragraphs now. Just one of the countless international hiccups that take place every day the world over." 

"Agreed." If pressed, CJ wouldn't have bet her salary on events working out so simply, but she was prepared to hope with her leader that they just might. For once. 

"Now, for the other reason I asked you down." His word usage implied that the Oval Office was either south or downhill from the Communications area, when of course it was neither. People do pick up peculiar habits and vernacular at times. "Have a seat." 

Experiencing a sudden trepidation, CJ moved towards the nearer sofa. Her leader chose one of the armchairs, so that he could look at her squarely... and perhaps to establish a bit of buffer space in anticipation of the subject to come? 

"I'd like your personal opinion on something." 

That was most definitely a request, not an order. It did not reassure her much, though. "I'll do my best, sir." 

"Feel perfectly free to change your mind," he advised, more gently than she'd heard him since the previous night. "I'll understand." 

CJ got her first suspicion of what _he_ might have in mind. For several seconds she just could not move. 

The temptation to take that option and refuse to discuss it was intense. 

The President held still as well. The alternating chill/heat in his vision oscillated faster than ever as he awaited her decision. 

At long last, she managed to swallow. "You're referring to last December." 

He nodded once, no more. 

Over the half-year since CJ's own abduction, which rocked the foundations of the entire White House, followed by the trial of her assailant, which so nearly completed that spiritual destruction for all involved, things had more or less returned to normal. Colleen Reilly went back to "Regina" detail, everyone else - up to and including the President himself - eased off on being so overprotective, and CJ overcame her fear of the dark. Toby had had a fair amount to do with _that_ private triumph. 

But the scars remained, and they always would. 

They would not, however, be allowed to _rule_ her. The Press Secretary seized the latent terror and wrestled it into submission. "What... is it you want to ask?" 

Bartlet chose his words very carefully. She appreciated the effort he was making. "I imagine this thing has brought up some unpleasant memories for you, huh?" 

She nodded, visibly paler, not entirely trusting herself to speak right now. "Unpleasant" didn't cover it by far, but somehow the extreme understatement helped to keep her emotions a bit more under control. Or a bit less _out_ of control... 

He gestured with one hand, for the first time today looking distinctly off-balance. "Look, I certainly don't want to make you relive it. I'm sure you'd rather not talk about it even in general, much less in detail. But - if you're up to sharing just a few thoughts with me...?" His voice trailed away, a heartbreaking indication of how well he knew that he had no business asking for such an enormous favor, yet so dearly _wanted_ to ask it. 

That plaintive note actually shored up CJ's courage. "Because the First Lady is going through something similar to what I did." 

The President looked down. "I know it's not the same. Your experience was traumatic beyond words." His eyes lifted again, brimming with pain. "But I think I'd feel a little better if I had _some_ idea of what's most likely... happening." 

The DSA were exactly on target: _not_ knowing is infinitely worse. 

CJ now faced an executive-scale dilemma: tell the truth in all its unvarnished horror, thus making matters even worse for the tormented husband before her, both mentally and physically... or play it down and spare him what she could, even if that meant lying outright to her Commander-in-Chief. 

She felt her way with great caution, like wading into unfamiliar waters. "Well, for one thing, the captives should have one less fear than I did. Paul -" by now she could speak that hated name without more than the merest cringe "- had other ideas than political barter." 

She took care not to emphasize the "should," and hoped her boss wouldn't mention it either. The DSA might be led by a woman, but that was no guarantee... 

He didn't call her on it; he probably didn't dare. Besides, she was right. Still, there's just something about sexual assault that surpasses even murder for sheer awfulness. 

CJ hesitated, at the exact crossroads of her choice, fighting her conscience both ways. 

"Let me say this: even in the worst of it, I clung to the conviction that you - all of you - were looking for me. That went a long way towards seeing me through. I knew you wouldn't give up, so I didn't let myself give up either. Remember, there was no communication from my kidnapper, no ransom demand at all. For the longest time, you didn't have _anything_ to go on. That's not the case here. You know whom to blame, and where they are - generally, at least." 

The persistent pain in Bartlet's vision eased a degree or two. 

She pressed onward while she still could. "Another thing: all along, I was so grateful that you, Mr. President, are... who you are. Of course I wouldn't have been in that situation if you hadn't hired me - but if anyone on earth could find me, I knew you could." 

The pain went down a bit more, taking some of the unbearable tension with it. 

CJ braced herself even more firmly. "Then, afterwards... when I came home..." _Home_ , her tone stated clearly, was the White House. Not unlike the First Couple themselves. "I had all of you to support me through the healing... and the trial. Especially you, sir. And your wife." Pause. "And Toby," she added, very quietly. 

The next silence resonated with optimism. According to CJ Cregg, there was good reason to hope for Abbey Bartlet's safe recovery, and also for her well-being thereafter. 

"Thank you," the President whispered. 

His Press Secretary swallowed again, with difficulty. "I'd give anything to be able to _really_ help." 

"You have. You've lightened my heart." He gave a long, deep sigh, evicting another mote or two of agony. "I needed someone to talk to." 

CJ's throat constricted anew. In his hour of need, he had chosen her. 

Of course, his _usual_ choices - his wife and his secretary-friend - were gone. 


	13. Other Half of My Soul, The 13

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 13 ~ 

There was a time when the Senior Correspondent of the White House Press Corps had a green light to confer with the White House Press Secretary about the news of the day, _any_ time of the day. 

There was a time when the Senior Correspondent dropped by with other than purely professional motives, and a time when the Press Secretary _occasionally_ welcomed his visits along the same lines. 

There was a moment when the Press Secretary deliberately kissed the Senior Correspondent in her office, in total defiance of the conflict of interest between their two careers. 

There was a moment when the Press Secretary stood in the Oval Office and told the Senior Correspondent that the conflict of interest between their two careers could not be reconciled. 

There was a time when the Senior Correspondent went out of his way to make the Press Secretary's life that much more difficult, for reasons that were never put into words. 

There was a time when the Senior Correspondent was virtually banned from the office of the Press Secretary, for very similar reasons... among suspected others. 

There was a moment when the Senior Correspondent stormed the Communications area in a rage, prepared to fight everyone around until he found out where the missing Press Secretary had gone and why. 

There was a moment when the Senior Correspondent, in a frantic willingness to follow any lead if it would help find the missing Press Secretary, walked straight into a bullet that was intended to eliminate him forever as a rival to her heart. 

There was a moment when the Senior Correspondent, his right arm in a sling and his face unnaturally pale, presented the returned, bruised Press Secretary with a bouquet of roses... and then walked away before his very presence hurt her any more. 

At _this_ moment, the Senior Correspondent approached the Press Secretary's office with no little trepidation. 

The door was partially open. Danny did not want to invade her privacy... and yet, no sound came from within. 

He shot a glance at Carol, working nearby, who just shrugged her ignorance that anything was wrong. Greatly daring, he risked a glance through the foot-wide gap. 

CJ sat at her desk, elbows on the blotter, forehead propped up by all ten fingertips. At first one might conclude that she was concentrating on the papers before her. The stillness in the room, however, did not suggest churning brain cells. Quite the reverse. 

Danny kept his voice considerately low. "CJ?" 

Her head jerked up. He almost left at once; she looked to be on the verge of tears. 

He _didn't_ leave. This wasn't his fault. Clearly she needed a friend. Hopefully he could still fulfill _that_ role, at least. 

"You okay?" 

Unlike a few occasions past, CJ did not physically withdraw from him. Over the last half-year, after he'd ditched his sling and her bruises had faded, they'd been once again moving - very slowly - towards some semblance of coexistence. Their jobs demanded it. 

However, this abduction of the First Lady had done fresh damage to that progress. Memories long banished, believed to have been long conquered, came roaring back into a couple of lives with full impact. 

"No," she replied shortly, looking down again as though to hide that fact from everyone, not just him. Her colorless features reflected one intense, unexpected emotion: _guilt_. 

Since she hadn't asked, or ordered, him to leave, Danny decided to come closer. He took care, though, to leave the door open so that she wouldn't feel trapped in any way. He hated walking on eggshells around her, but he wouldn't add one iota to her discomfort for the world. 

"Can I help? What's wrong?" He'd give anything he possessed to help her... 

CJ looked up again, measuring him with one long, somber stare. He fully expected her to reject his aid. Then the words burst out, unable to be restrained any longer. 

"I just lied to the President." 

Now that was not the sort of thing an average person, much less a Press Secretary, should confess to an agent of the media. Clearly, in this moment CJ did not see Danny the reporter. She saw Danny the friend. 

Their professional differences and shared past nightmares had been tossed aside. She knew that, when the chips were truly down or when she herself was on the line, she could trust him. 

He basked in that knowledge. Considering why she'd been kidnapped, and why he'd been shot, any chance of them building a real relationship - careers aside - had been pretty much demolished. At first she hadn't been able to endure the sight of him; through no fault of his, the direct association to her hellish ordeal was simply too traumatic. 

Yet if they could at least become friends again... It'd be a poor substitute for love, he thought resignedly, yet better than total separation. 

He edged closer still, watching for the first hint that he might be crowding. He refused to endanger even the most platonic bond with her now. "Do you want to talk?" 

CJ hesitated again, understanding that he would leave if she asked him to. But no; this _couldn't_ be held back. She visibly tried, then gave up in defeat. 

"He wanted to hear a bit about my own... disappearance." Six months were long enough that she felt more or less okay talking about it - at first. "So that he could get a more accurate idea of the First Lady's situation, and maybe ease his mind a bit." 

CJ sighed, shakily. "Which meant I had to choose. I could tell him that I wasn't so scared I couldn't move, or think. That I just did my best to stay healthy and find a way out, all the while knowing that you guys were looking for me... and that I was sure his wife was doing the same thing right now." 

CJ sighed again, her control starting to slip. "Or I could tell him about the total mind-and-body terror. About wondering _when_ and _how_ I'd die, not _if_. About the... the absolute _revulsion_ that I was being treated like a piece of property. About the despair that I'd _never_ be found, that I'd never see my family, my friends, again." 

Danny shuddered. He knew the basic facts behind Paul Thatcher's actions; it was, after all, national news when the White House Press Secretary vanished without a trace and the President mobilized every state of the Union to find her. Besides, Danny had been considered part of the Senior Staff's inner circle that time, for once... and his own injury had uncovered the psychopath's true motive. But CJ had naturally been loathe to speak about her experience - not to the papers, and certainly not to the colleague who stirred her recollections most of all. 

Now she clamped both hands over her eyes as though to block out the sight of her memories: both six months ago, and mere minutes ago. 

"So I chose: between torturing the President even more, or giving him some false hope and just maybe sparing him a relapse. And I lied to him." She dropped her hands and slumped back in her seat, guilt-ridden eyes on the ceiling. "I told him what he wanted to hear, because I couldn't bear to let both of us face the appalling truth. Because I _know_ that his wife is going through all the horror I went through, and I'm worried out of my mind for her." 

Danny watched her sit there and blink furiously, striving to maintain that dam against the encroaching flood of her tears... and experienced a flash of anger - anger at Jed Bartlet, for asking such a thing of this still-damaged woman. But then, the reporter pondered, suppose someone here could have given _him_ a similar insight into CJ's plight last December? Would he himself have chosen to risk hurting them, if only they could help him understand? 

Also, he had just glimpsed in blindingly vivid colors what CJ had endured. After all, she hadn't disclosed the deepest details to anyone. Except Toby, perhaps - and Abbey. 

"There are worse reasons to lie to someone," Danny offered, softly. "We should watch out for our President - as a leader, and as a man." 

"And if the First Lady doesn't make it?" CJ countered, almost frenetic by now. "At least I could have helped prepare him a bit!" 

His heart positively ached for her. "Wouldn't matter. Nothing you or anyone else could say would ever prepare him for _that_." 

Pause. "You're right." She wrung her hands and kept glancing in all directions, as though for an escape route of her own. "Suddenly, I also have a much better idea of what _you_ all went through when _I_ wasn't here." 

Automatically, unbidden, it occurred to the journalist that he had just unearthed a stunning angle to this whole story on the First Lady. It would be magnificent: the depths of the President's marital devotion, and of his pain, mostly hidden from the public thus far... and the loyalty of his Press Secretary, a former victim herself, sacrificing her conscience so as not to cause him even greater distress. 

Danny had been hunting news for most of his adult life. No way could he _not_ consider the gold ingot just placed before him. 

In the next heartbeat, he resolutely thrust this treasure away. To claim it would be to parade the most private anguish of two people he deeply respected before the eyes of the whole world - including the perpetrators. No way would he so terribly wound either his elected leader or the woman he adored. 

Abruptly CJ swiveled her chair around until he couldn't see her face at all. 

"Danny, I'm sorry - but I can't talk about this anymore right now." Her voice shook. 

He fell back at once. "Of course. Just..." He stumbled over words that sounded all too trite for the emotions engulfing him. "Thanks for letting me listen." 

Her head moved in a jerky imitation of a nod. "Thank you," the whispered reply came, barely reaching his ears. 

Heartened by that gratitude, by their renewed camaraderie, he turned to go - 

\- And Toby himself appeared, as though out of thin air. 

The Director of Communications stopped short on the office threshold, clearly not pleased with the Senior Correspondent's presence. During this next charged heartbeat his brows drew down in that patented, unnerving glower of his. 

Danny's first impulse was to glower right back... his second, that they had no conceivable reason to quarrel. He knew that now. 

But did Toby know it as well? 

"CJ?" Toby's low rumble of a question covered a lot of ground: whether she was all right, whether Danny was to blame for her _not_ being all right, whether she would like Toby to heave Danny through the nearest window - or wall. 

Danny couldn't blame him for such a reaction. This grim, undemonstrative colleague had been quietly protecting her in one fashion or another ever since her rescue. Plus, he and Danny once came perilously close to blows because of her, on the very day she disappeared. 

She didn't turn, but the twitch to her shoulders spoke volumes. No doubt she could picture the scene behind her, and she likewise must have had a good idea of the thoughts and expressions flying between these two men, both of whom she cared for - if in different ways. 

"I'll be okay. I just... need some time alone." 

The men sized each other up, then acceded to her wishes and exited without a sound. 

Danny let Toby close the door behind them, but he didn't simply walk off himself. He had no reason to fear what the older man might say. 

Toby said nothing aloud. His brooding, accusing vision did that all too plainly. If the reporter had been the cause of that glaring unhappiness - 

Just about everyone in the West Wing knew that CJ had drawn much closer to Toby during the trial of her assailant; he'd been there for her as Danny could never have been. He'd almost single-handedly helped her to recover her sanity, and to recapture her life. 

Danny tried not to wonder just _how_ close the two of them had become. It was, after all, none of his business. He and CJ would never know that closeness now. Envying his successor would accomplish nothing but bitterness for himself and for her as well. He should be grateful that someone had helped CJ when he himself simply could not. She so needed the support. The important thing was that she got it, not who provided it. 

However, these two men had not said one thing to each other in all those six months. 

Danny broke that silence here and now. Toby deserved to have his own, perfectly natural concerns laid to rest, too. He met that dark glare unflinchingly. 

"Thanks. For taking such good care of her." 

The look of surprise that crossed Toby's face furnished all the satisfaction a man could wish. 

* * *

Ainsley Hayes stood before the door to the Oval Office, trying to find the nerve to open it - trying not to literally shake in her boots. 

After several seconds of watching this silent struggle, Donna traded an indulgent smile with Nancy, then offered some gentle encouragement. "Go on. You'll be fine." 

"Oh, _sure_ I will. So far I've embarrassed myself both times I've met him." The young counsel rolled her eyes at those appalling memories. "That means I've still got one strike left." 

She took a deep breath, and reached for the knob, feeling almost like a condemned prisoner. "Might as well get it over with." 

She'd never been in this chamber before, but few Americans over kindergarten age would fail to recognize it. The smooth, curving white walls. The portraits of Washington and Jackson. The beautifully carved desk. The flawless royal blue carpet, with that perfect embroidered Seal. The matching plaster relief Seal in the ornate ceiling. The unmistakable view out the windows. 

The man who ruled from this hallowed ground. 

If she'd been flustered about meeting him before, by surprise in her own tiny subterranean excuse of an office, or by excruciating appointment in the Chief of Staff's handsome office right next door, then imagine meeting him _here_ -! 

Bartlet broke off his ongoing discussion - or argument, depending on one's tolerance for levels of debate - with his right-hand man before that desk. "Ainsley. Welcome." 

The only thing that could make her feel even smaller and more reverential still was the person of the Chief Executive himself. She clamped a stranglehold on her courage, and advanced one step, letting the door close. Its click sounded unnaturally loud - sealing her in. 

"Mr. President." And, somehow, she looked him in the eye. 

Ainsley had met him twice before. Each time she'd been a schizoid bundle of nerves and succeeded in making a total fool of herself. Each time he'd been pleasant and patient with her... which somehow only made those awful moments even worse. 

This veritable blaze in his vision, this azure conflagration caused by the most gut-wrenching trial a leader and a husband can face, surpassed anything she'd expected, even after the headlines and the White House grapevine. His famous face was seamed with tragedy, with rage, with lack of sleep, with a stress that would destroy most other minds. He looked visibly grayer at the temples than the last time she'd encountered him. 

He really _was_ human after all. He could be hurt - and hurt terribly. 

That realization scored deep. It also helped somehow to calm the initial jitters. Ainsley still felt awe, an awe so intense that she feared to disturb the pile in the carpet. But she also felt a wave of sympathy. 

Speaking of humanity, this was also the first time she'd seen him since his medical condition hit the airwaves. Without intending to, she checked for any visible sign of the dreaded disease. Then she shook off the thought; the First Lady's situation transcended even _that_ issue in gravity. One crisis at a time is more than enough. 

Leo shifted a few paces aside, but did not leave the room. Ainsley would have liked to avoid _his_ eye as well; he'd been the one to hire her, and he'd been present for her previous humiliation as well. 

Could she ever hope to redeem herself in either man's estimate? 

Bartlet finally noticed how she had frozen in place. "Come on over. I won't bite." 

She picked up the distinct impatience in his tone. This was not a get-to-know-you social event for a new employee. This was a state of emergency, and the President needed to confer with his legal counsel. No time for niceties. 

Then, just as she shook off the spell of the Oval Office (or most of it, at least) and started to obey, to approach the throne of the kingdom, that infamous Bartlet humor poked its head briefly above the executive defenses. "Uh, that is not to say I usually do." 

Caught by surprise, Ainsley grinned involuntarily. So did Leo. 

The President did not. His few jokes today were just as involuntary, not a deliberate attempt to amuse people or to calm a skittish visitor. Still, his friends could find some hope in how his resilient nature had not yet been suffocated. 

"Yes, sir." She took a steadying breath and, at last, stepped carefully onto that carpet. Walked in the footprints of Presidents past. Stopped before she quite reached that Seal, a reasonably-safe four feet from her present Commander-in-Chief. 

He stood tall, one hand resting on the front edge of his desk, as though in constant touch with the history and power it embodied. Or was she reading too much into each little nuance here? Surely he didn't think he had to impress her further. 

He swung straight into business, foregoing further pleasantries. "Babish phoned that you were coming." 

Ainsley found that blunt attitude oddly reassuring, and she welcomed all the reassurance she could get. She tried to pretend that this was just one more consultation, like so many others she'd attended with previous clients. "Uh, yes, sir." 

"Yeah, I guess he's staying on top of the investigation, postponed or not. But he's right that I need some legal advice on... other things as well." Bartlet's burning vision appraised her. "So I guess you drew the short straw." 

Ainsley fought the sudden, compelling urge to turn and flee. At high speed. Those eyes... 

She swallowed, holding still with all her might. "Y-yes, sir. And right now I'm quite willing to hate my boss for that," she admitted, quietly yet frankly. 

He waved a hand. "Don't. If you can stand in the Chief of Staff's office and ream out its occupant, you should be able to stand in the Oval Office and give _its_ occupant your honest evaluation." 

Leo couldn't hide a smirk. Right then Ainsley came close to hating him as well, for telling the President about _that_ mortifying moment. In fact, she had managed a shaky start with just about every person who worked inside these revered walls. If _only_ she'd shown more restraint when she faced off against Sam Seaborn on TV last year... 

Then those words sank into her brain. "You really want _my_ opinion, sir?" Her personal, young, outspoken, Republican opinion? 

The President frowned. "Why else do you think you're here in the first place?" 

She tried not to cringe, well and truly off-balance. "I - have never been all that sure." 

When one's career involves federal politics, the partisan line can never be ignored for long. Ainsley Hayes just couldn't forget that she was the lone Republican representative. How _did_ she get drawn into this Democratic administration? 

Bartlet had an answer to that. "Are you under the impression that you're the only Republican under this roof? Don't forget that my predecessor was as well, and that most of the White House's thousand-plus employees did not leave when he did. So if everyone who works here is in my camp, then that guy must've been surrounded by so-called 'enemies' for his entire term. Kind of unlikely, wouldn't you say?" 

Ainsley scrambled to regroup her thoughts. "I... see your point, sir." 

He had segued into a lecturer's pose, easy and familiar; she started to breathe again as that frigid flame in his gaze damped a bit. "This is the House of the People. Its staff members can vote any way they like. I don't stack the deck in my favor, and I don't look at the cooks or the janitors or the security guards and wonder if they voted for _me_." 

"Why do you think the Secret Service follows him even in _here_?" Leo contributed, grinning. "I'm just waiting for some kid from the mail room to come after him with a tape gun." 

Bartlet scowled even more. "Hey, only _I'm_ allowed to joke about that around here." 

Leo rolled his eyes at this claim to rights. His boss was right, though: if anyone _else_ joked about assassination attempts, it might be taken wrong. 

Meanwhile, this well-intentioned counter-humor had succeeded in easing Ainsley's edginess even further. In fact, she almost felt... comfortable. 

Around the President? Unthinkable! 

That impression must have showed. Bartlet returned to current issues, apparently confident that he would now get some reliable information from her. "To answer your question, Ainsley: yes, I want your opinion. As you can imagine, I'm somewhat insulated at times - now in particular. I need to get a feel for the general public perception outside these walls. I need to hear the pros and cons about that flare-up in Cuba, especially after I interfered. And I need to know the legal ripples to the ongoing search through DC." 

Now it was the President who radiated tension, not his guest. The maelstrom behind his eyes mounted again at the merest reference to his missing wife, overwhelming all else. 

His guest shivered. This fury, this fear, was awesome - in a totally different manner than the veneration she felt when she first arrived. Now, for the very first time, she actually wanted to be here, to take part in this urgent situation. She wanted to contribute in any way possible that would bring the First Lady home. 

Ainsley had yet to meet Abbey Bartlet, not that she anticipated such an opportunity anytime soon. Of course the spouse of the President would share his party affiliation - but what did that matter? The First Lady was not political. _Everyone_ knew her to be a dedicated public servant and a wonderful person. From the buzz in the halls outside this room, never mind the pervading mental agony _within_ this room, she had a lot of loyal staff and friends, and an utterly devoted husband. 

Ainsley recognized the President's struggle to maintain his self-control at all costs, so that he could confront reality rather than be browbeaten by it. She possessed a similar defense of her own: professional training. It helped her now to deal with both her intimidation and her empathy. She kick-started those job instincts and shifted into legal mode. 

"Yes, sir. I'll provide any information I can. And what I can't give you right now, I'll find out in a hurry." 

That was the longest and the firmest statement she'd made so far. Both men noticed. Leo gave an approving nod at how she had risen to the occasion, even after her rocky beginnings and her almost paralyzing respect. 

Bartlet nodded as well. "I appreciate your dedication. I knew I was right to have Leo bring you on board." 

That amazing, newfound confidence in this chamber instantly evaporated before unmitigated shock. Her body stiffened, her eyes bugged, her lips parted... not in awe like before, but in sheer disbelief. 

Leo _really_ smiled at that expression. 

Even the President raised an amused eyebrow this time. "I thought you knew." 

She slowly shook her head, dumbfounded beyond all speech. Of course she'd assumed from day one that it had been the Chief of Staff who liked her demonstration on Capital Beat and made the unorthodox decision to hire her, doubtless after a hard sell to get his boss to agree. Her near-terror at meeting the Chief Executive had been further intensified by the conviction that he must have deeply resented her Republican presence in _his_ White House. 

But now... she'd finally learned the unbelievable truth... he himself had wanted her to join his team? 

Bartlet enjoyed her kaleidoscope of emotions for a few moments. "All talent is valuable, Ainsley. It shouldn't be dismissed or stifled just because it has a different party leaning." 

Then he steered back on track, abandoning all levity. "So. Talk to me." 

All at once, Ainsley Hayes experienced a gigantic surge of the purest admiration... and commitment. This had gone beyond patriotism - now it was personal. In silence, she swore that she would do everything in her power to assist, with legal advice and any other talent she had to offer. She would help this man get through this ordeal. A heart as large and generous as his deserved nothing less than her very best. 


	14. Other Half of My Soul, The 14

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 14 ~ 

If you ever merit an escort by the United States Secret Service, then you're either extremely important - or extremely dangerous. 

If asked, the man that Ron Butterfield led through the majestic halls of the White House would have bet that he fell into _neither_ category. He sure didn't feel privileged... and he hoped that he was not perceived as a threat. Of the two, however, the second seemed more likely. 

Curious eyes followed his passage on all fronts, increasing his awkwardness tenfold. 

Nancy and Donna looked up in unison as they arrived. Ron spared them a passing glance, but did not pause, speak or relinquish responsibility of this visitor. The women watched in silent wonder as he went straight to that door - the last door to the heart of the realm - and knocked. Waited two precise seconds. And entered. 

More than a little reluctant, his companion followed. 

Jed Bartlet stood near the center of his office, hands clasped behind his back, looking like he'd just stopped in the middle of pacing the blue carpet's ovoid length. "Yes." 

"Mr. President, this is Aidan Mayes." 

"Ah." He came over at once, hand extended. "Good to meet you, Aidan." 

"Mr. President," the tall guest replied quietly, his tone and his handshake both a bit curt. 

If Bartlet noticed that, he didn't let on as much. "Thank you, Ron." 

"Sir." The coordinator of White House security turned and left. So did Charlie, an ever-undemanding shadow in the background that knew when to leave without being asked. 

Now alone, these two men took a moment to study each other, looking for any clue that they shared the same thoughts. Both wore smart business outfits that did not disguise the anxiety trapped inside. Both displayed considerable self-confidence, not in arrogance, but rather as a form of armor against adversity. Both seemed to be perpetually angry at something - or someone. Both looked wan and tired from unrelenting apprehension. 

The contrasts were also evident. Mayes' slim height suggested elegance and poise; Bartlet's shorter, broader build hinted at greater physical strength. Mayes' silver hair and short goatee made him look older at first glance than he actually had to be, due to the lack of facial lines; in like manner, Bartlet's dark hair and undeniable vitality made him seem younger than he was. Mayes' off-white ensemble completed his general pale outline; Bartlet's standard navy suit, light shirt and bright tie picked up the gray at his temples and the flame under his brows. 

The President ended this uncomfortable introspection. "Thanks for coming." 

Lilli Mayes' husband gave an offhanded shrug. "To be honest, I didn't get the feeling that I had much choice." 

Abbey Bartlet's husband frowned. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to imply that my invitation was a command." 

"With an escort like that?" Mayes hooked a thumb over one shoulder in the direction of the door, and the now-absent bodyguard who had brought him here. "Even if I'd felt inclined to turn down the White House, I doubt many people _ever_ turn down the Secret Service." 

"Ron's purpose was to get you through the security grid. You can imagine that it's a bit tighter than usual right now." 

Bartlet waited, but his guest did not respond. Instead, Mayes just stood there and watched him. Strangely, he didn't seem all that impressed. His deep brown eyes did not leap and flare as his host's bright blue eyes did. Instead, they were as hard as flint - almost dead. 

"Would you like to sit down? I can get you something..." 

"No, thanks." The refusal was blunt, the tone flat. Mayes didn't lessen his ramrod stiffness in the least. "Why did you want to speak to me?" 

The President hesitated at this thinly-veiled discourtesy. "Well, Aidan, it occurred to me that _you_ might like to speak to someone who understands what you're going through." 

His use of the visitor's first name failed to forge the bond he wanted. Almost always, people were flattered if their President chose to launch that initiative. Here, such assumed informality only fed the all-too-apparent irritation. 

Mayes glowered down from his superior height. "You _don't_ understand. _Sir_." 

Bartlet had never been in a better mood to fight. No one questioned his devotion to his wife and walked away whole. Firmly, he modulated his respirations and his pique. 

"I'm not the President right now, Aidan. I'm Jed. And I know exactly how you feel." 

Mayes leaned forward, daring to harass his elected leader in his own high office. "With all due respect, _Mr. President_ , I doubt it. Lilli and I live in a very modest home on the fringe of town. We don't have a whole lot of financial security, and we sure don't have any fame. The only thing we do have - is each other." 

Thus, in bold strokes, he painted the disparity of his simple life to the prestige behind the White House and one of the founding families of the original Thirteen States. 

"For the record, let me set something straight." Bartlet too seemed to be bracing himself. In preparation for - what? "My marriage is not for show. It never has been." 

He didn't have to add another word to get his point across. 

This time his guest's poorly-hidden anger lanced out like a sword. "Don't even _try_ to imply that I can't be as torn up as you are, or that you and your wife are closer to each other than Lilli and me. Just because I don't have children, just because I'm younger than you and haven't been married as long as you, means nothing." 

Thus did Mayes claim a point in turn. The love between husband and wife transcends social status and age together. 

His leader did not give ground. "Have you slept at all since yesterday?" 

Something changed in Mayes' pugnacious expression at that shrewd stroke. 

Bartlet nodded, satisfied that he'd received his answer. "Me, neither." 

So much for any real difference between them. 

"And don't think that my job's to blame, although God knows it can keep me awake on its own. I have people who are supposed to hold me to a sane schedule; for the good of the nation, they can't let their President push himself _too_ hard. Although their best efforts have been less than successful over the past few hours." 

And still Mayes did not look impressed. In fact, his resentment seemed to bubble and mutate, towards something disturbingly close to genuine hatred. "Well, I guess we poor mortals just have to deal with our troubles alone." 

Bartlet called upon his own resources of dignity. Not as a leader, but as a man. "This has nothing to do with privilege. Trust me, I'm no less mortal than you. _Especially_ now." 

"Funny; I can't think of any particular reason why I should trust you. Sir." 

That statement wouldn't have anything to do with the MS, now, would it? 

Mayes had abandoned all subtlety of challenge, falling into what could only be described as a fighter's crouch. His lip curled; his fists opened and closed in blatant anticipation. 

The atomic reaction in Bartlet's eyes burned hotter. 

Neither man gave a thought to the function of the Secret Service operatives right outside. The President did not want someone else waging _this_ battle for him. His visitor simply didn't care that he risked federal punishment - or even his life. 

"You've obviously got something on your chest," Bartlet said, quiet and cold and deadly. "Here's your chance to let it out." He didn't move an inch, every sense alert, every muscle taut, just waiting for the wrong move. 

Both had been under unendurable pressure for far too long; they craved the release that physical combat would provide. Even the inevitable injuries would be almost welcome. One more instant and they'd literally be at each other's throats... 

Mayes hit his fracture point right then. " _This is all your fault!"_

"I know!" 

Those two shouted words almost knocked Lilli's husband back onto his heels. 

Abbey's husband didn't let up, unleashing his own pain. "Don't you think I've been telling myself that ever since?" 

Some of Mayes' animosity bled away in honest surprise. Of course it wasn't _really_ the President's fault. His guest didn't actually believe that, either, no matter how much his heart hurt. But to have Bartlet think so as well... 

The dam had broken at last, spilling a torrent of self-recrimination. "If I hadn't been elected - if Abbey hadn't needed her own staff as a result - if my office didn't attract enemies left and right - then _none_ of this would have happened! _Both_ our wives would be home safe!" Again, he underscored the one thing they had in common. 

"And the worst thing is that _my_ wife was at least partially prepared for this horror. We've had to think about it, and talk about it. But Lilli _wasn't_ prepared! She's an employee; she's not _supposed_ to get dragged into political blackmail!" 

The President had to pause, gasping for breath after the violence of that long-contained explosion. His visitor did not interrupt. 

"So don't tell me that I can't understand you, _Mr. Mayes_. I love my wife, too - no less than you love yours. Meanwhile, I'm directly responsible for _both_ women's lives, as well as the two agents who have already died trying to protect them, and those who will probably die trying to _rescue_ them. I'd like to see you do better. In fact, I'd give a lot to hand this responsibility over to someone else right now. _But I can't._ " 

A fragile silence quivered around them. Bartlet slumped in his tracks, suddenly worn out, under open attack by his own doubts. He grappled with the demon, held it at arm's length, compressed it, pounded it back into the iron box that was supposed to contain it... a box getting weaker and shakier with each passing hour. 

Mayes looked at that bowed head, those shaking shoulders, this war for a man's soul, and considered what he had just witnessed. What he had just learned. 

He did the only thing he could think of. "Aidan." 

The President looked up. 

Mayes offered a slight, tentative smile. 

Slowly, Bartlet mirrored it. "Jed." 

Their hands extended towards each other in unison. This time, the grip was genuine. 

Mayes looked down. "I'm sorry. I had no right to take this out on you." 

The President waved away all conflict. "I'm just as guilty of that. Actually, it felt good to yell a bit. I'm not supposed to around here." 

Pause. Both smiles had died, but the image lingered. 

"Aidan, I'm going to let you in on a big secret. It could get me into serious trouble with the Service, but I'll take my chances. You of all people deserve to know. I want to give you any hope there is." 

Mayes waited, head tilted attentively, wondering. 

His host took a deep breath. "Abbey has a hidden transmitter on her. When she activates it, we'll be able to find them both at once." 

Those near-black eyes lit up. A transmitter... they'll find her for _sure_ , and _soon_... and Lilli with be with her... 

Wait a minute - " _When_ she activates it?" 

Bartlet sighed wearily, sadly. "She hasn't yet." 

Silence. Neither man dared say the obvious: _if_ she ever will... 

"Sir..." These two men might be on a first-name basis at last, but Mayes had a question specifically for his leader, not his new friend. "Do you know what the kidnappers want?" 

For a long moment, the President did not reply. Then, "Yes." His eyes closed. "But I just can't tell you, Aidan. I'm sorry. I have to take the national and _inter_ national factors into account. I've got no choice in the matter at all." 

After a long moment of his own, Mayes nodded. "I understand." And he did, as well as any private citizen could. This nation does not negotiate... 

Still, just the thought that Bartlet knew the price that had been demanded, and was certainly able to pay it, so that Lilli could come home _now_... 

"Oh - and I have something for you." The President turned, crossed to a side table, picked up a small wooden chest that looked like a cufflink holder, and brought it over. 

Mayes blinked, having no clue at all what it represented. 

"Lilli's jewelry. The kidnappers forced their prisoners to leave them behind." 

A shocked silence. At first, Mayes couldn't even touch the carved box extended towards him. His leader waited patiently until he could. 

He held it in hands that trembled. He didn't open it. He couldn't - not yet. He couldn't bear to look upon them and think that these simple items might be the very last things Lilli would have touched... 

Bartlet regarded him with astonishing empathy. "I know," was all he said. 

In a stunning flash, Aidan saw that he _did_ know. He had gone through exactly the same heart-crushing moment with Abbey's belongings. 

They _did_ have a lot in common. It helped, more than a little, to share the hard journey with someone who felt the same way. 

If your companion happened to be the leader of the free world, well... 

Which reminded Aidan of the one real difference between them. His pain was private; nothing intruded upon it. The President's pain, however, while no less real, had to be endured before the eyes of the entire world. 

Bartlet displayed evident reluctance now, overlaying the fresh waves of exhaustion and worry. He didn't want to shoo his guest out. Yet, whatever comfort he had found in this interaction, and whatever comfort he had been able to provide in turn, it couldn't alleviate the unfathomable burden of his office. "I'm glad you came, Aidan. I'll keep you informed of whatever happens. I wouldn't have it any other way." 

"I'm really grateful, sir." Then, with an effort, Mayes corrected himself. "Jed." It felt positively unnatural... and yet peculiarly _right_ at the same time. 

The President flashed a grin. "Good man. Maybe we'll see more of each other, once we've worked out a happy ending to all of this." That was far from assured, but he did not let the faint suggestion of hope fade. They both needed that hope just to survive. 

A touch of humor can make survival a wee bit easier as well. "By the way, has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like Uncle Sam?" 

* * *

As afternoon slanted into early evening, the Senior Staff congregating again in the Oval Office to make their interim reports. 

They had precious little to report on, if one excluded the growing trepidation and the sinking hope. Almost a full day had passed since the First Lady was snatched from them all, and what did they have to show for it? 

"The grand jury has been officially suspended until further notice," CJ confirmed quietly. 

Toby shook his head. "Just what the DSA will love to hear." 

"If only they'd waited a few more weeks to see what happened first." Sam shoved his hands into his pants pockets and let his shoulders sag. "Now they know how stupidly impulsive they've been." Which certainly wouldn't improve their frame of mind. No one present said that aloud, but all thought it. 

Josh agreed. "I think we'd all rather go down under an investigation _than_ this way." 

"We're not going down." 

Up until now the President's mood during this discussion had been calculating and calm; _too_ calm for the staff's comfort. Whatever had transpired between him and Lilli Mayes' husband - it had ended peacefully, but the rumors ran from a strident shouting contest to a boxing match - he appeared to have recovered his composure. All private thoughts and feelings remained under the surface, simmering away, not allowed to break forth. Of course he'd been up for the past thirty-six hours, and under the worst stress imaginable for most of that time; his energy reserves had to run down _sometime_. It wasn't happening yet, though. 

His people certainly preferred to deal with _this_ side of The Man's multi-complex personality. They looked to him, set their course by his star; when he seemed on the verge of giving up, they found themselves feeling much the same way. 

And when his resolution rang true, so did theirs. Like right now. 

None of them could deny that, despite the horror of this day, Bartlet had risen to full battle glory. He couldn't completely hide his unspeakable pain, no matter how hard he tried - but he utterly refused to let it infringe upon his duty. Hope for the best, plan for the worse, and in the meantime keep the world on an even keel. The staff saw this. The politicians grasped this, either in person or across the phone lines. With any luck, the people got a similar impression through the press: that their leader had been all but crushed by his personal nightmare, and yet somehow he found the fortitude to carry on. With a little more luck, the terrorists responsible for said nightmare would read into a different angle: that of a leader struggling hopelessly, on the verge of total ruin. Interpretation is everything. 

Neither could anyone deny that the entire White House had also been infected with its Chief Executive's fever. In mutual resolve, they pushed themselves to the limit and played just as hard as he did. None of them could help the Secret Service in its search, or get the First Lady home any sooner, so they channeled their efforts in any other manner available... and meanwhile, like their leader, waited. 

Now Bartlet stood by his words. Even if his wife paid the final price, even if his children were deprived of their mother, even if his heart was ripped to bloody shreds, he refused to surrender the future of America to terrorism. 

"And we're not giving up." 

His closest staff members - and friends - would have gained more assurance from such a noble stand if it didn't score their own hearts so deeply. Not just out of concern for Abbey herself, but also to see her husband go through this. 

Leo broke the moment. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately, dissipating emotions that threatened to get out of hand. "No, sir, we're not. Is there anything else?" 

No one brought up new business. Leo seized the chance to end this meeting before nerves stretched any tighter. "Okay, then." 

The staffers turned to leave. Before he joined them, the President's best friend leaned close to his boss and whispered, "Take your meds." He didn't like the brittle point of light behind those blue eyes. 

Bartlet shrugged him off brusquely. "Go away." Clearly he wanted some time alone to face the full repercussions behind the declaration of war he'd just announced. 

Leo exited into reception, closed the door, and for a moment just stood there, his hand still on the knob, his head bowed. The rest of the staff lingered too. Donna and Nancy abandoned their work to pay close attention. Charlie rose to go back in, but his own natural interest in this moment and the Chief of Staff's posture held him still. 

Josh blew out the breath of despair that he'd somehow held in until now. " _What_ are we accomplishing anyway? Besides killing off an entire day?" 

"Just so long as that's _all_ that's dying..." Sam's reputation as the resident optimist had taken a beating of late. 

"We keep going," Leo said sternly. "We can't do anything else -" 

KEE-RASH! 

It was the unmistakable sound of breaking glass - from the other side of that door. 

Everyone froze. Five of them experienced instant _déjâ vu_ : of the eve to their second State of the Union, of the flu season two winters ago, and of an identical sound preceding their leader's loss of consciousness in the Oval Office. 

_Dear God, not again!_ And he was alone, as they had almost never let him be until now - 

All eight barreled inside at top speed. 

From the opposite direction, through the hall portal, two Secret Service agents burst in no less swiftly. 

Just like last time, shards of glass lay scattered across the rich blue carpet in a dark puddle of water. 

_Un_ like last time, the leader of the free world was not stretched out prone among the debris. He stood in front of his desk, staring down at this mess with an indecipherable expression. 

"Mr. President?" several voices shouted at once. At least there would be no frantic "Liberty's down!" transmission this time - but what had happened? 

"It's all right." He lifted a hand, almost languidly, not looking up at any of the people swarming around him. "Everything's fine." 

Spectator numbers grew as more and more responded to a dangerous noise in the executive presence. Amazement, apprehension and cautious relief jumped from face to face in a rapidly shifting whirlwind of uncertainty. 

Leo stepped urgently to his friend's side. "Sir?" 

Bartlet examined his open palms, then let them fall to his sides. He might have been breathing a bit quickly, but none of them could be sure. "Sorry. The pitcher slipped. I just... dropped it." 

The human race as a whole has a tendency for clumsiness, and everyone who knew this man also knew that he possessed more than his share of those uncoordinated genes. Or - _could_ this instead be a symptom of his medical condition, rather than a simple accident? 

Was the unbearable stress exacerbating his illness? Could he still operate as their leader? 

No one dared even think of such a thing. 

Now the President raised his eyes - eyes that burned with an unhealthy fire. "Someone get the clean-up staff in here." And just like that, he rejected any importance to the entire incident. 

There might be at least one other explanation. The blast radius of glass fragments and water droplets looked distinctly wide for a chance descent of only about three feet. It would fit more if the pitcher had fallen from a substantially greater height - or else been directed groundward by a force stronger than gravity. 

Had Jed Bartlet actually hurled the water container to the floor with deliberate intent to destroy? _Had_ he succumbed to a fit of rage and violence utterly foreign to his nature and to his normal self-control? 

If so, then this marked a critical destabilization of his very identity. 

* * *

The general maintenance crew finished their task and took their leave. No sooner had they disappeared down one end of the hall, though, than a dark shadow detached itself from the opposite direction and approached the Oval Office alone. 

"Mr. President?" 

Bartlet glanced around, somewhat irritated, from where he stood by the windows. "Yeah, Toby, what?" 

The Communications Director closed the hall door behind him. "May I speak with you?" 

"I think I know what's coming." The President washed down a pill or two, set his water tumbler on the sideboard rather roughly, and about-faced. "All right, let's have it." Now he just sounded resigned. 

Toby wandered forward, hands in pockets, eyes aimed at the floor more often than anywhere else. Someone who didn't know him would think he felt totally guilty for this intrusion, whereas in fact the mannerism served as a conversational tool. It often pays to lull your opponent into a false sense of superiority before you launch your attack. 

Not many people in this building saw their Head of State as an opponent. But no one around here got into more presidential arguments than Toby; not Leo, not Abbey herself. 

"Somehow I don't think that pitcher decided to fall on its own," he commented in the quiet, carefully modulated tone that indicated his thoughts had been worked out well in advance. He glanced pointedly at the large damp spot on the carpet. "I think it had a little help." 

Bartlet exhaled in annoyance. "If you're here to lecture me on my temper -" 

"No, sir, I'm not." Toby did not react to what could be taken as a veritable confession. He just waited, until his boss strode around towards the center of the room, not far from where he himself now stood. Then suddenly he straightened and brought his dark, brooding vision to bear in full force. "I have a question. If I may." 

Bartlet stopped, his own vision narrowing. He knew Toby too well. There must be more to this than a casual query, but he had no idea what the query itself would be. Of course he probably wouldn't welcome the question once he heard it. Still, that was nothing new between this pair. He could always trust his grouchy Director of Communications to give him the hard truth. 

After a moment he nodded and claimed one of the armchairs, visibly preparing for an inquisition. "Go for it." 

Even more self-contained than normal, Toby drifted over to a sofa and slowly took a seat. His gaze did not fluctuate. 

"Tell me, sir: how does the First Lady handle this?" 

Dead silence. 

The President displayed a perfectly blank expression. Where did this extremely personal question come from, and what exactly did it mean? 

Toby didn't wait for a demand to elucidate. "I'm not talking about the pitcher thing. All of us are thinking about both you _and_ your wife. And all of us naturally need an outlet for our feelings. If you want to smash every glass and vase in the West Wing, I doubt anyone would say you nay." 

Bartlet glared. "Well, _thank_ you for granting me permission." Still, his visitor had demonstrated not the slightest hint of humor or sarcasm. "Now what are you getting at?" 

Toby kept his voice low. "I'm wondering how the First Lady deals with her constant concern for your health. Especially these last few months." 

The President scrambled for what he thought might be an appropriate response, still not entirely sure where all this was heading. "With a whole lot of practice." 

"Not only practice; she's had eight years to prepare herself for the worst." Toby paused, gently. Beyond a doubt, this was what he had been leading up to all along. "Ever since you were diagnosed, she's had to deal with the possibility of continuing her life without you. After all, there are any number of things that could go wrong with your condition." Things that could kill faster than the disease itself, such as a fever-inducing influenza. Or, for that matter, a political assassin. 

Bartlet got that concept himself. "Leaving aside the risks of my trade." 

"That as well. She must think quite a bit about what could all too easily happen." 

"I lie awake at nights too, you know," he growled. "This is _my_ health we're talking about." Yet the rare glow of compassion in Toby's face contrasted starkly with the roiling anger and damaged trust that had rampaged when these two men first faced this topic back in April. That compassion encouraged further frankness, and promised kindness. "But... yeah. I know she dwells on it at times." Executive shoulders heaved in a long sigh. "Even more of late." 

Toby nodded. "I'm sure she has. Although I'd bet neither of you discuss it if you don't have to." 

The President snorted. "We've hashed it over often enough to last a _dozen_ lifetimes." 

"So you bottle it up instead," Toby said, more gently than ever. Few people could make a point as effectively as he could. 

Now Bartlet leaned back, thinking hard. He and Abbey had spent countless hours debating his medical situation over the years. They'd done the same ever since they landed in the White House, about the MS _and_ about potential acts of violence. These two subjects shared a lot in common: they had to be confronted, they couldn't be accurately predicted, they were too hideous to talk about for long... and they revolved around him alone. 

"You can tack on the constant demands of my office while you're at it," he murmured, almost to himself rather than to the man who had guided these thoughts into the open. "The long hours. The stress. The separations. The disappointments for both of us." Pause. "And still she hasn't gone crazy, or left me, or anything else." 

He shook his head. "Damn - maybe she's stronger than even _I_ imagined." 

This time Toby said nothing. He sat still, studying his leader, and waited for whatever additional conclusions might develop. Undemanding, sympathetic in the most considerate way, offering counsel and support simply by being there. 

After several seconds, the President turned back to him. The furious, leaping fire in his eyes had settled somewhat, into a lower, steadier flame of new comprehension. His voice softened in what might almost be described as wonder. 

"In all this time, all these years of worrying about what might happen to me... neither of us ever really faced the possibility of her dying first." 


	15. Other Half of My Soul, The 15

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 15 ~ 

The last ruby rays of the setting sun lifted up off the White House, and dusk closed in. 

Eleanor Bartlet stood before the upstairs window and watched the shadows grow in the southeast, creeping closer to swallow this building whole. All of its history and power could not save it from the approach of dreaded nightfall. 

Zoey came up silently beside her older sister. As the only child still living at home when "home" became the premier residence in the land, she had had second pick of the bedrooms. Her choice opened out onto the Truman Balcony at its eastern end, just as her parents' room allowed access from the west. But the lock-down forbade any of the First Family from casually taking the air outside - even when three stories above ground level and well beyond rifle shot from the nearest fence. 

Out there, beyond that fence, was a city in near-chaos, with traffic tie-ups everywhere, an ongoing house-to-house search and a government perched on shaken ground... a city that had given birth to danger and violence and fear for one's very life. 

These two girls stood inside an armed fortress, surrounded by alarms and detectors of poison, explosives, radiation... perfectly safe, with all the guns facing outward. 

Their mother should have been here too, just as secure. Instead, she was somewhere _out there_ , virtually alone and completely unprotected, for the second straight night. 

"I'll never understand how anyone could conceive of doing such a thing to another person," Zoey whispered at last, her voice quivering. 

Ellie's head tipped, processing that thought. "I _don't_ want to understand. If I truly did, then I'm afraid I'd be all too capable of doing it myself." 

And thus is the bane of human intelligence. Zoey replied only in silence, yet speaking volumes for all that, as she put her arm around her sibling's shoulders. They leaned into each other, short auburn hair and long chestnut hair intermingling. They were near the same age and almost the same height, very different in personality, yet still a strong family. 

Someone knocked on the door. 

They both looked that way, then looked at each other. Who would be visiting the Residence at such a time - much less the room of the youngest First Daughter? 

There were only two options: family/friends, or security. 

And if security... 

"Come in," Zoey called uncertainly. 

The door swung open. "Hey, gals." 

"Mallory!" they exclaimed in unison. 

Leo's daughter walked in, arms wide. With her father and their father so close, it was really rather inevitable that their children would grow up the same way. Mallory had long since earned as much right to sisterhood as Zoey, Eleanor or Elizabeth. 

The three young women engaged in a group hug. 

"It's great to see you!" Being so seldom in town, Eleanor naturally fell more out of touch. 

"And it's great of you to come." Being almost always around, Zoey had forged the closest bond with Mallory since the Bartlet-McGarry political movement first took wing. 

"How are you two bearing up?" The schoolteacher leaned back, gazing from one sibling to the other, sharing in the comfort and the woe. To her, Abbey was almost a surrogate mother. 

They traded glances. No words could possibly suffice. 

"We're trying." Ellie found some real relief in this addition to their numbers. Suddenly, she wasn't the oldest girl around anymore... which meant she didn't have to play the grown-up for Zoey's sake or anyone else's. 

"You can guess how much success we're having." Zoey brushed at her eyes furtively, hoping they didn't see. She hated being the youngest, and tried hard not to be last in line for anything - not accomplishments, not strength. 

"Yeah." Mallory mustered a half-smile. "You Bartlets have always been over-achievers." They giggled a bit, as usual finding it easy to relax around each other. "Anyway, I figured you didn't want to spend tonight on your own any more than I did. What say we have a White House sleepover?" 

Zoey really liked that idea. "We haven't had one of those since we were kids!" And if she remembered _being_ a kid, then she wasn't one now, right? 

"Besides, the best time for one is when you can't sleep anyway," Eleanor pointed out. She kept her tone as light as she could - but reality could be denied only so long. 

Mallory nodded in melancholy agreement. "That's what I thought. Say, would it be okay if I brought a friend?" 

The sisters traded another confused look. What other friend could possibly fit in with them, or understand what they were going through? 

Their honorary sibling decided to take this hesitation for permission. "Hey, Mom!" 

Ah, the mystery was solved. Both First Daughters sprang forward to embrace the tall, stately woman who now crossed the threshold. 

Jennifer O'Brien, Mallory's mother, Leo's ex-wife, and the First Lady's dear friend, stepped without hesitation into the maternal role that both of Abbey's children, at twenty and twenty-four, so desperately needed tonight. 

"Are you dears all right?" 

"Yeah, we're okay. Sort of..." 

"We haven't seen you in ages!" 

"I know. It's a shame... And now..." 

"It's great that you're here." 

"Thanks for coming." 

"I wanted to look in on you anyway - and then Charlie called me." 

Zoey laughed briefly through the tears that she couldn't prevent any longer. "Leave it to him. He's hanging around our dad too much." 

Eleanor made a subsequent mental connection. "Um... does Leo know you're here?" 

The former Mrs. McGarry went still for a moment. "No - not about either of us. He's got enough to deal with; he doesn't need any distractions." 

A distraction _she_ would be for certain. Their divorce had been amicable enough, yet strained, and the injuries might never heal. Despite the alcohol, the pills and finally the overwork that had hounded Leo for decades, love still clung to both sides of a cherished memory. 

The three girls said nothing. In their very silence they promised to share the secret, and spare the discomfort. 

That, however, was the past. The present contained even more anguish, and none of them dared guess at the future. Jenny reached out a hand for her own daughter; Mallory moved in close to complete the ring. 

"Come on. Let's sit down, and wait together." 

* * *

At the same time, in an extension of the same building, someone else was also watching the night reach out its cloying arms. 

Normally, when Bartlet didn't need him, Charlie sat at his desk in reception and helped put a dent into the endless paperwork that any governmental wing can create without apparent effort or purpose. When Bartlet _did_ need him, it most often meant either running errands inside the White House or accompanying him to places _out_ side the White House. Those, of course, were only the predictable moments. As anyone who's ever worked in government knows, predictions and schedules hold true maybe half the time, if that. The personal aide to the President had more "additional duties" unofficially tacked onto his job profile than any other employee around. 

When he hired on, he'd anticipated almost none of them. Especially this one: occupying a simple chair against a wall - in the Oval Office, no less - and doing _nothing_. Nothing except provide a silent presence of comradeship, and a precaution against executive emergency. Of course, he'd also never anticipated getting to know this man personally... or falling in love with this man's daughter... or playing an important role in safeguarding this man's very health. 

Not twenty feet away, the President of the United States worked at his own desk, that beautifully carved one-hundred-and-thirteen-year-old desk of English oak. He kept his head down and his full attention on the papers before him, studiously ignoring all else. The only sound was the flutter of report pages. 

Charlie pretended to ignore his boss right back. He _wanted_ to be ignored; he felt like he was intruding as it stood. So he sat there, alternating between bits of reports and snippets of books, changing frequently to keep his mind occupied and distracted. A vigil like this can be painfully boring even when you're well rested, which didn't apply to either of them. 

The pain of boredom counted for nothing by comparison. Bartlet's aura projected tangibly outward, fury and fear, horror and grief, magnified the more he tried to contain it. Thus he drove himself to work, to block his helplessness from his mind lest it destroy his mind. And thus his aide drove himself no less, there when needed, never in the way when not. 

Something finally caught Charlie's attention: not a sound, but a silence deeper still, without even the rustle of paper. He'd been sneaking surreptitious glances at his leader all through his watch, hoping such glances would not be noticed. This time he straightened completely, throwing that discretion to the winds. 

The President had left his desk. Exactly when, Charlie couldn't have said. He stood before the tall windows again, as he had done so many times over the last twenty-four hours. 

As a matter of fact, right now was almost exactly twenty-four hours since this ordeal had begun. 

The silence intensified to a critical level, when one's hammering heartbeat can drown out everything else. Then, a long exhalation whispered forth like the brush of angels' tears. 

"Abbey..." 

Charlie tried not to shift in place, feeling uncomfortable to the extreme. He'd seen Jed Bartlet at his most human before; as a daily shadow he could not do otherwise. Still, few people like to witness the most personal moments of another, never mind their social status. If Charlie had had any hope of leaving the room undetected, he would have done so. His standing orders aside, even world leaders had a right to privacy. But he couldn't leave without some sound, so he sat very still and hoped that he wouldn't call attention to himself. Wishing he couldn't hear. 

"Tell me what I should do." 

Charlie winced, feeling more uncomfortable than ever. Was the President talking to himself, to his aide, to his wife - even though so utterly beyond earshot - or to his God? 

Back still turned, apparently oblivious of any mortal witnesses, Bartlet stared out into the night that separated him from the woman he loved. 

"I swore an oath: to serve this office to the very best of my abilities." His voice barely carried across the width of the plush blue carpet. "But I also swore another oath, three decades earlier: to love and protect my wife, for all of our lives." One could hear the multiple nuances behind this ultimate division of his very being. 

"I have a responsibility to this government, this nation, no matter what political or personal crises I face. I have to listen to the people; they selected me as their leader. I have to consider the personnel who guard me and my family with their own lives. I have to set an example for the whole country, my friends, and my children." Few people could hope to comprehend such a burden, such a dilemma. 

"There is a difference between the administration of justice... and retribution. I can't abuse my executive authority. I can't be distracted by whatever impact I may have on history. I have always believed in the natural good within all humanity." He sighed, heavily, too tired to restrain his feelings any longer. "But right now I am consumed with the un-Christian desire to see these criminals punished. Or better yet - dead." 

Charlie just sat and listened, overwhelmed with empathy. 

"This job of mine... it's the climax of my life as a citizen of this country. Come to think of it, probably as a human being. I know now, with all my heart, that it is my destiny, my purpose in life. I needed a lot of convincing at first, but I've come to really know it. And now someone is determined to take it away from me. That fact I can handle - except for the terrible risk to my wife. If I had my own free choice, I would surrender this dream, this fulfillment, for her. To hell with the policies of government." Pause. "But then all of America would pay the price instead. And that sense of injustice wouldn't go away. We'd never forget that we capitulated, that we let maniacs with guns scare us into doing the wrong thing." 

Bartlet paused again, his head bowing under the titanic weight of his thoughts. 

"What keeps coming back to me is the arguments. The silences. The petty disagreements we've been having for months. Somehow, they seemed so important at the time. I honestly thought they were worth giving up some peace of mind for awhile, just to prove that I was right. And I allowed those arguments to come between us, to chip away at our time _together_. Time that can't be recovered. Time that may _never_ come again." 

He heaved another sigh, this one packed with all the weeping of an eternity. 

"Abbey... you're half of my life. How can I possibly live without you?" He was pleading now, pleading for help from any quarter at all. "What would you want me to do? Not give in - I know that. Not even for you. We've discussed this before... and prayed that we'd never have to put it into practice. You've always reminded me that the nation _has_ to come first. For everyone's sake, for today and for the future of the world, _we can't let terror win._ " 

Silence. 

" _But I can't just leave you to die..._ " 

At this moment, the most powerful man in the world was entirely powerless. 

Charlie's chest hurt. He didn't dare breathe, afraid that one sound from him, even the softest exhalation, would be heard - would annihilate this ultra-private snapshot in time, would pierce the precious balloon of memory that his leader clung to with such desperation and drop him, would let him plunge beyond salvation into whatever gaping hell awaited. 

His leader turned. 

There might have been the merest sign of dampness on his haggard face, as though a single tear had finally broken free and drifted down. 

Yet he looked at his young aide without discomfort or surprise. 

The President knew that Charlie was under instructions not to leave him alone. The President knew that Charlie would not have eavesdropped if he could have prevented it, instructions be damned. The President knew that Charlie had been in that chair all evening, unable to leave unnoticed. The President knew that Charlie had heard everything. 

Charlie forced himself to breathe, swallowed with great effort, and rose. It was so quiet he could barely get the words out. "Sir... I'm sorry... I-I couldn't..." 

The President didn't mind. 

"Actually, Charlie, I'm glad you're here." He moved a few steps closer, away from the window and all the frightful possibilities roaming free beyond it. 

"We've become very comfortable with each other, you and I. You've gotten to know me, and my daughters... and my wife. That fact alone makes me feel a bit better." 

The young man relaxed a couple of degrees, releasing the worst of his pervading tension. "I want to help, in any way at all." 

Bartlet kept coming, as though drawn like a magnet to the only available source of human companionship. 

"Unfortunately, there's not much help to be had. I'm just waiting for a signal. Either an electronic one... or a heavenly one." 

He stopped an arm's length away from his personal aide, then glanced aside. The restless motion of head and eyes showed how he was constantly searching for that signal, listening for the merest sound. It would be a positive indication that Abbey still lived, that he could still rescue her. It might come at any moment. It had to come. He had to be ready for it. 

"I've got to keep holding on. Keep _believing_." He tried to sound convincing. "If I can just do my best here, and still maintain some trust, some faith... faith in my wife's ability to take care of herself, faith in the institutions trying so hard to find her... faith in God..." 

The President's head sank again, so close to despair, so near to defeat. "There is nothing else for me to lean on anymore," he whispered. 

Charlie hesitated - but this time he simply could not be still. 

"Sir, it's absolutely vital that you keep the faith in all of those things. But," he added, oh so gently, "you do have one other source of help." 

He waited until his boss looked up, in part wonder and part hope, then hiked both eyebrows. Saying, as clear as anything, _Look at me. Look at us._

This time the silence didn't inhibit his words. It enhanced them. 

In this perfect quiet, their roles of mentor and protégé had been virtually reversed. 

After a long, long moment, Jed Bartlet nodded. 

"You're right, and I can't believe I forgot that even for one second. I also have to have faith in the people helping me get through this." 

He reached out, placing his hand on Charlie's shoulder. "I have friends - I have _family_." 

* * *

Even late at night, the West Wing was never quite empty. Oh, sure, the custodial staff did almost all of their cleaning then... but you could bet on finding at least one senior member of the President's miracle-working team around until midnight at least. The vast majority of the time, there never seemed to be enough hours in the day. 

This had been one day that, conversely, felt too long. 

Four people sat around the office of the Deputy Chief of Staff. They said nothing - just lounged in various poses of sheer exhaustion. The door was closed, shutting out what little activity had not yet given up the ghost until the morrow. 

None of them gave any sign of activity, either. They weren't here to talk, to work, to fight. They had come solely to be together. 

Toby occupied one end of the couch, elbows on knees, flexing a red rubber ball between his hands in an absent, mechanical motion. CJ graced the other end, long legs curled under her, eyes closed and head propped up; she seemed to be physically holding herself in, rather than just resting. Sam slouched so low in his chair that he looked in imminent danger of sliding all the way out, and too tired to care if he did. Josh sat behind his desk, tilted precariously back, feet up on the blotter - not because he felt the least bit in charge, but because there was no room for him anywhere else. 

This quartet struggled together, argued together, sometimes drank together, sometimes even played together. One thing they _never_ did was observe quiet together. There were too many differences of opinion, too volatile a mixture of personalities, and the common knowledge that their most furious debates yielded the best results. But now, under this omnipresent cloud of suspense, they did not speak or even look around. Tonight each of them asked only for the freedom to draw whatever comfort could be had from his or her closest friends. 

Quite suddenly, out of the blue, Josh spoke. His voice sounded hoarse, as though either from lack of use or else because he'd been shouting for hours. "Never thought I'd see the day." 

CJ opened one eye, leveled it at him, and then at Toby. "Five bucks." 

Josh frowned at this complete non sequitur to his already-obscure opening statement. 

Toby just sighed, not looking up. "Sam, you're letting me down." 

Sam's head lolled sideways towards his boss in equal confusion. "Huh?" 

"We were wondering which one of you would crack first," CJ's languid tone informed them. 

Josh slumped even further back. "Oh, thanks. I'm glad I was entertaining." 

Sam couldn't help a grin. "You always are. So what's so special about _this_ day to you? Besides the obvious." 

His best friend exhaled. "I'm too tired to drink." 

CJ _humphed_. "An historic occasion." 

"No, really. I bet I'm the most tired one here." 

"You'd lose," Sam said confidently. "I've been sleepwalking for the last ten minutes." 

Toby shook his head. "Sam, you're _sitting_." 

"Whatever." 

Silence returned... though not for long. Even small talk - even open conflict - was better than being flayed alive by one's persistent anxieties. 

Sam tried to find a more comfortable position without actually sitting upright, as the chair had been designed. "What I wouldn't give for one of the President's trivia lessons right now." 

"That'd put you to sleep in a hurry," Josh assured him. 

"You got a problem with sleep? _I_ don't. And it would be a sure sign that the President's hanging in okay." 

"Point." 

Silence. 

Josh attempted to ease his back, which ached easily these months, and opened his mouth to comment on something else: something most likely frivolous. 

Toby saw it coming and intercepted him. "No matter how this ends, if _anyone_ is callous enough to suggest that the grand jury should still go ahead, I will personally hang them from the top of the Monument." 

CJ opened an eye again. "Concurred." 

"Me, too," Josh put in, showing more enthusiasm now than he had all evening. 

"Me, three." Then Sam paused. "Wait a minute. You'd be three, so that makes me four." 

"Okay, if you say so... but I think 'Me, four' sounds pretty stupid." 

"Aw, these established cultural traditions have got us brainwashed." 

"Your brain wouldn't wash if we tried." 

"Give it a rest!" CJ interposed. " _My_ brain hurts too much to deal with more than the normal nonsense from you two." 

Sam considered her words. "Normal nonsense - I like that." 

"I'm so glad for you." 

None of the guys alluded directly to the reason why CJ found this whole scenario even more trying than they did. None were that insensitive to her feelings. They could feel the hideously familiar miasma of tension that she was doing her utmost to resist, even as they relived their own consuming fears for a member of their circle gone missing, in peril. At some times six months can seem endless... and at other times, a mere eyewink. 

Josh let out a grunt. "After what the whole First Family has gone through, even the biggest Bartlet-hater out there will have to give us a breathing period at least." 

"Never underestimate the heartlessness of a politician who doesn't like you," Toby advised quietly. 

"But there'd be a hell of a public outcry," Sam predicted. "Whether the First Lady makes it or not, one great thing has come of this. Everyone's finally seeing what we've always known: what a great leader the President is!" 

CJ passed a hand across her eyes. "That won't make them scrap the full investigation. It's still too much of a constitutional issue." 

"Okay, but the odds of us winning it will _have_ to go up," Josh insisted. "Nobody can deny any longer that he's the right man for the job. If he can handle this, he can handle anything. And he is handling it. How, I don't know. I've never seen this..." He scrounged for the right description. "Toughness. No - _hardness_." 

" _None_ of us have, Josh!" CJ sniped. After all, such an extreme, soul-tempering situation hadn't occurred before. Please God, it never would again. 

Silence. All of them had indeed made the same observation about their leader's efforts to cope with a load that would smash most people to fragments. They'd seen a side of him that never manifested itself before, a side that only the worst possible circumstances could unveil. They hated to see him suffer so horribly... and yet, to also behold such an iron will and savage determination, never even glimpsed before in the more than three years they've known him... 

Toby could out-pessimist anyone here, and he proved that now. His voice dropped to a near-whisper, underscoring the importance of this next contribution. "If the First Lady _doesn't_ make it... there'll be no need for legal procedures at all." 

No one disagreed. Any such procedure would be redundant - because the President wouldn't make it either. Certainly not as Josiah Bartlet. He would be demolished, reduced to a mere shell of a man... if he survived at all. 

Silence. What should they do next? How could they hope to avert such utter disaster? _Could_ it be averted? 

Again Josh spoke up first, although this time he could have been muttering for his own benefit alone. "I remember how she took my bitching on the campaign trail, when the Governor was at his worst. She never flinched." 

Silence. Jed Bartlet would never have even aimed for the Presidency without the encouragement of his best friend, and the support of his wife. And the United States would have never known what it missed. 

Now that one of them had started this predictable track of reminiscence, Sam promptly leaped on board. "Oh, yeah? You should see how intimidating she can be. Like when I had to work out the Fed Chair succession thing last year. I know she got a real delight out of lying in wait for me... after I was so hard on Lilli. Whoa - scary." 

Silence. The President had ordered: _I_ don't want any of us to forget about Lilli. 

As though drawn out against his will by the oppressive atmosphere, Toby also became strangely revealing. "I can speak to that. She chewed me out royally after the last State of the Union, when we cut one of her personal projects. I expect the President got an earful on that one, too." 

Silence. Perhaps that had been the reason behind the First Couple's tension of late. It seemed kind of small for long-term irritation, but no one here knew for sure. 

CJ let her supporting arm fall into her lap, and turned to look her three companions in the eye, one after the other. "She gave me a priceless piece of wisdom once. _The_ truth will do it almost every time." 

Silence. The truth was something politics tended to avoid far too often. 

The truth here, now, was that Dr. Abigail Bartlet - wife, mother, grandmother, daughter, friend, First Lady of the United States - had been denied the basic human dignity that _every_ person should receive. To save her would preserve the spirit of an entire nation. To save her by submitting to terrorist demands... would hand control of that same nation, and of the world as well, to the forces of lawlessness and violence. 

For each of the foursome sitting here now, and for countless others in this building, to lose her would be to lose part of themselves. They would fight for her on behalf of their boss; they would also fight for her purely on her own behalf as well. 

And here, the best way to fight was to work. To keep the ponderous machinery of federal government operating. To help their President endure. 

No longer did the nagging doubt linger in these staffers' hearts as to whether they really wanted to continue an apparently hopeless political war, a war they seemed to have already lost, for a man who had let them down. Life had been distilled down to its most essential elements. Regardless of all the questions to come in judicial circles about trust, honesty and integrity, these four people loved their President, and they loved his wife. They would not abandon either. Jed and Abbey Bartlet were under siege. They couldn't survive without their friends. 

Toby encapsulated this mutual attitude now filling the four hearts present. "Our job is to get him through this - for both of them." 


	16. Other Half of My Soul, The 16

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 16 ~ 

There were four entrances into the Oval Office: the south-side patio doors from the exterior colonnade walkway, the connecting passage into Leo's office, the door to main reception, and one situated between these last two that led directly into the central corridor of the West Wing. Only the President used the exterior entrance, since only he came directly from the Residence, although accompanied sometimes by Leo or Charlie, and always by security. Almost no one used the direct link to the Chief of Staff's office save the Chief of Staff and the President himself, and those lucky few escorted by one to see the other. For administrative purposes staff and guests alike went through reception first, whether they were expected or not, since the President's personal secretary could be counted on to know if someone should be admitted at that precise moment or not. Even in the dead of night the custodial workers entered that way, just to be sure that the President was _not_ in. The fourth door did not see much usage by comparison, more of an extra exit than anything else. Nobody wanted to barge in on whatever their Commander-in-Chief might be doing... except for the Secret Service, of course. 

Even members of the First Family observed this general guideline nine times out of ten. Their presence would not be welcome at almost any business meeting on the go. Only when they really wanted to be discreet and they knew ahead of time that the President was alone did they risk an unheralded arrival. 

Eleanor and Zoey claimed that privilege this night. Technically, by now it was morning, even though their father still hadn't packed it in... or showed any sign of doing so in the near future. 

Being around more often, Zoey knew more Service agents by name. She flagged down one of the hall sentries in the Residence. "Donnie." 

He came over at once. "Yes, Miss Bartlet?" 

"Our father is free to see us in the Oval. Can you take us through the back way, please? We really don't want to distract the staff." 

If he thought anything odd about this request, he didn't say so. It certainly fell within the parameters of his duties - and First Family privacy was accorded at once by everyone today. 

"Smurfette and Bookbag are headed for the Rec Room," he radioed in, as per SOP, and then set off. The First Daughters followed, Eleanor carrying an incongruous white plastic bag. 

"I really don't like that name," Ellie muttered. 

"Hey, at least you got to choose yours," Zoey pointed out unsympathetically. "You should've thought about it longer, that's all." 

"My criteria were two syllables, starting with 'S,' and five seconds. What's a girl to do?" 

"Stop watching so many cartoons on TV?" 

"That was _years_ ago!" 

The West Wing is more than a century younger than the White House proper. The original structural design from 1792 had not called for many exterior doorways, and these two buildings join at what had been an exterior wall. Only one main corridor serves the considerable traffic flow. Normally, that is quite sufficient. 

There are, however, other options if you know them. And the Secret Service has to know. 

By taking this "backstage" route that most people knew nothing about, Ellie and Zoey reached that fourth door to their father's office without encountering any of the staff still working even at this late hour. They traded a serious nod, then entered. Donnie took up his post right outside. 

"Dad?" Ellie inquired carefully. 

Jed Bartlet was alone, reading as he paced around his desk, too agitated to sit still - or else staying active in order to maintain his momentum. He looked up quickly, and smiled briefly. "Ah, my two personal angels. Come on in." 

Zoey led the advance. "Thanks for taking the time to see us." They had, of course, phoned ahead, just to be safe. 

"I'm glad you wanted to come down. Seems everyone else is avoiding me tonight." 

Neither daughter would have hesitated to instigate a hug tonight. Contact for them all had become very important of late. But... something in his vision discouraged them. Those red-rimmed and shadowed blue eyes seemed to flare and glow, more intense than ever. 

Amazingly, he still maintained a professional executive posture: suit pressed, tie straight, hair neat. However, as they came up close, both girls could see further danger signs: his constant, nervous movements, the perspiration on his forehead, the minuscule tremor to his hands that made the papers he held quake perceptively. His face was pale and drawn, and did not break into the joyous planes it almost always did when he beheld his children, even when at his busiest. 

He was pushing himself to the uttermost limits of human endurance. 

Eleanor put her foot down at last. Someone had to. "Dad, this has gone too far. You've got to get some sleep!" 

"Oh, relax," he answered at once, a little too quickly, offering his standard reply to all such expressions of concern. "I'm fine." 

Zoey hit him from the other side, two against one. "You're _not_ fine. You've been awake for more than forty hours nonstop, and over twenty-four of those have been simply hideous!" 

Jed waved her away also. "I've handled longer stretches than this." 

"Name one." 

He paused, searching his memory. "Uh..." 

Ellie truncated the effort. "Whenever it might have been, it doesn't matter anyway. Dad, if you don't pack it in, you _will_ collapse - and that's not a guess." 

"No, I _won't_." He really did have bullheadedness down to an art. 

"We're worried about Mom too," Zoey reminded him, her voice starting to quaver. "We don't want to lose you as well!" 

For several seconds Jed stood there, his back to his desk, his gaze darting from one daughter to the other. They held their ground, effectively trapping him between them. 

Finally, he conceded with a sigh. "No fair, ganging up on me." 

Both young women relaxed visibly. At least they'd won the first round, just getting him to admit that they were right... 

"But I'm still not turning in." So much for round two. 

"Dad!" both chorused. 

Their father straightened to his full height, dark and stern. "Let me tell you _why_. One of my greatest fears right now is that someone - most likely Leo, or maybe Ron - will have to come in, wake me up... and tell me that your mother is dead." He shuddered a bit just at saying those dreaded words. "That I blissfully slept away her last minutes of life." 

His children shuddered, too. 

He maneuvered between them and started to pace again. "Adrenaline is pretty impressive stuff. Right now I'm so charged that I honestly don't feel that bad. I know what it's like to be exhausted, and sick. I know that I'm still thinking clearly. But if I stop now, how long will it take me to gear up again? There's too much riding on my ability to make decisions, _fast_." 

The girls glanced at each other, reluctantly seeing his point. 

Jed swung back, came over to them, and laid his hands on their arms. His eyes burned into theirs. "I'm convinced that, if anything actually happened to your mom, I'd _know_ it. It's like - like our souls are bound together. She _has_ to be all right. At least, for now." 

He paused and looked down, his breath-rate accelerating a bit, his voice dropping... his whole self pouring out in a stream of raw conviction. "If I stay awake, if I keep thinking about her, just maybe she'll sense it somehow... and know she's not alone." 

That did not sound like the President of the United States at all. 

Eleanor and Zoey traded another glance, silently reaching a decision. 

"Okay." Ellie gave every appearance of acceding to his wishes. "But please, Dad, at least let me give you a shot. It'll help stave off any _other_ complications." 

Jed hesitated. However, even with his endless consuming torment over his better half, one other thing still had the power to scare him. "Yeah, you're right." 

Zoey exhaled in relief. This would be round three. She stood back and let her sister take over. Ellie was the senior medical student present - although all of the Bartlet girls had been trained by their mother to handle this, just in case. Eleanor set the simple plastic shopping bag on a side table and folded it down to reveal Abbey's black medical satchel. She most definitely had not wanted anyone else to see it en route here. 

Jed nodded his appreciation of the gesture, but did not watch the all-too-familiar preparation ritual; he'd seen it innumerable times before. He just shrugged out of his blazer, settled on the edge of his desk and wearily rolled up his sleeve. 

Displaying impressive skill, not looking directly at him, Ellie swabbed the cleansing alcohol into his arm, and then reached for the syringe. 

"Wait." 

She froze, needle in the air. "What?" 

Her father was studying her _very_ intently. His vision sparked anew - this time with frank suspicion. "Call me curious... but there wouldn't happen to be anything _else_ in that thing now, would there?" 

Her guilty look confirmed it at once. Jed shot a fast glance at Zoey, and saw the exact same expression. 

His brows descended. "What is this? A _conspiracy_?" 

Eleanor's shoulders slumped. "No point in denying it," she confessed. "I added a sedative in advance." 

He shook his head. "It boggles my mind that you two would even conceive of such a thing. I think I'm too amazed even to be angry." 

"Dad, you _have_ to rest!" Zoey burst out. "If this was the only way -" 

Now Jed _did_ get angry. "I'm having a hard enough time with the idea that you'd drug your father. But do you have _any_ idea how illegal it'd be to drug the President?" 

"We don't _care_!" His youngest daughter stood there in the Oval Office and shouted right back at him. "Maybe the rules could be stretched for family members, in a medical emergency like this. But even if not, then so what? We'll take the heat and gladly. At least you'd get the sleep you need, so that you can actually live through this!" 

"This is not a medical emergency," he ground out. "Not yet - and I'm not letting it become one. I can take care of myself. And I sure as hell don't want you two breaking the law, for _any_ reason." He glared at them both, making sure they understood how serious he was. 

Sighing, Ellie capitulated. In the bitter silence she set aside the tainted syringe, obtained another one, filled it carefully with the betaseron solution, and again made her approach. This time Jed permitted it. He set his teeth and did not allow more than a wince of discomfort to escape when the needle plunged home. 

As efficient as any doctor, Ellie applied a fresh cotton ball to the injection site, taped it down, and started to pack up. Zoey did not move. 

Still scowling, their father rolled down his sleeve and refastened his cuff, and then managed a brusque "Thanks." He was not too stubborn to deny the incalculable value of this medication. 

"How do you feel?" Eleanor asked softly. 

Some of the fire left his eyes. "Okay." He breathed deeply, tiredly, and made no move to leave his perch. 

"Good." She closed the medical bag with a snap, then faced him squarely. "Because I have another confession to make." 

He blinked. "Huh?" 

The guilt had returned... tempered by triumph. "We guessed that _you'd_ guess that the first syringe had been fixed." Ellie paused apologetically. "So I doctored two of them." 

Silence. 

Jed turned slowly, actual panic crossing his face. He tried to push himself off the desk - and didn't quite succeed, his balance even now growing unstable. He got the point at once: far too late to do him any good. The sedative was already in his bloodstream, and taking effect. 

"Damn it all to..." The glower he now aimed at his daughters shrieked of betrayal. 

Both flinched, yet held true to their conviction that this was the right thing to do. 

Zoey put it into words. "We can't help Mom. But at least we can help you." 

He raised a weak hand to his head, which suddenly felt far too heavy. He had just a few moments of conscious thought left... 

"Come on, lie down." Eleanor reached for one arm; Zoey moved to the other side. Together, gentle yet firm, they walked him across the stitched Seal in the carpet to the nearer sofa. 

Jed blinked hazily each step of the way. He had no hope of resisting as they physically seated him there, like a recalcitrant child. "When your mother hears of this..." 

"Just so long as she _does_ , from _you_." Ellie pressed him flat onto his back and wedged a pillow under his head. Zoey lifted his feet up and loosened his tie and collar. Then each of them kissed him goodnight. 

"Rest up, Dad," his youngest daughter pleaded. "You'll be all set for the new day." 

"Pleasant dreams," her sister added. 

He muttered something, no doubt still thoroughly ticked at them both, but it petered out as at last the long-overdue oblivion claimed him. 

The two young conspirators stood there for several seconds, each with a supportive arm around the other, and contemplated their deed. Then, quietly, although no amount of noise could wake him now, they removed the evidence and left the President to his healing slumber. 

* * *

From Jed Bartlet's perspective, hardly any time elapsed between tumbling into total night, fighting all the way, and feeling something jog his shoulder. The cloying embrace of chemical inducement unwillingly eased its hold on him. 

"Mr. President?" Pause. Another gentle nudge. "Mr. President." 

"Yeah, yeah." The words barely formed; his tongue was too thick to be articulate yet. He remembered Charlie waking him like this more than once. But that wasn't Charlie's voice. 

He worked his eyes open, flinched at the bright lights, and squinted at the humanoid shape looming over him. 

"Sir?" Ron Butterfield's face swam into focus. 

"All right, already." The words came more readily this time. "Don't just stand there; give me a hand." 

With assistance, he finally worked himself upright, elbows on knees and head hanging, waiting for the mist over his mind to clear. He felt weighted down all over, as though each bone and muscle had turned to lead. 

"What's up?" 

"We've got the First Lady's signal." 

A lightning-bolt of energy shot through him. All aches were forgotten, his thoughts crystallizing instantly. 

"The ring?" The first mote of honest hope appeared in his heart. Did he dare -? 

Ron grinned, a most unusual action for him. "Yes, sir, it's coming in strong. We now know where she is." 

And if she could signal, then she was alive! 

"Yes!" He sprang to his feet, weariness and despair forgotten. "Oh, thank God! Let's go!" He headed for the nearest door in a rush. 

"Sir - wait!" 

He didn't want to wait. But Ron almost never said anything that wasn't important, so he made himself pause for one more moment - _no longer_ , he vowed - and listen. " _What_?" 

"You can't go along." 

He stared in astonishment at the man who dared tell him he couldn't go and rescue his wife _personally_. His next words came out in a veritable snarl. "Like hell I'm not! Now, either lead the way... or stand aside." 

Ron stood still. "Sir, the assault squad has already been dispatched. They'll move in within the next few minutes. There's nothing you can do." 

He froze in place, feeling betrayed all over again. He could do _nothing_. Even if he left _now_ , he'd never get there in time. He didn't even know where "there" was. 

"Why, Ron? Why didn't you wake me sooner? _She's my wife_!" 

His once-faithful bodyguard did not back down. "Sir, there's no way you could help with this operation, and a lot of ways you could hinder it. I didn't wake you sooner because I knew you'd want to go along. I wanted to spare you as much conflict as possible." 

He wanted to lash out, to hit something. Some _one_. Didn't they understand that he had to be there? He had to find her _himself_. He had to look at her, hold her, and _know_ she was all right. He had to face those so-called patriots directly and repay them in full for what they did to her - with his own fists. He couldn't just wait here until the word came back through an impartial radio transmission... of success, or of failure... 

Ron sounded at least a little apologetic. "Sir, I'm sorry. There was no way you could have gone along. I should be there myself, but I chose to stay here and relay everything to you at once. It's the best we can do for you - and for her." 

Slowly, all of this sank in, forcing him to admit the virtue to that argument. He'd be useless as a soldier, and splendid as a security obstacle. Yelling about how much he had to be there, no matter how true it was, wouldn't change the facts or the situation. 

He turned away, planted his hands on his desk, and bowed his head. Accepting the inevitable, because he simply could not do otherwise. "All right. Please... stay with me." 

That was the closest he'd ever come to begging for help. Ron did not comment. 

The minutes dragged by like the passage of eons. He paced ceaselessly, watching the clock tick off each excruciating second and the moon inch almost imperceptibly across the sky, while his best agent stood motionless, concentrating solely on the microphone in his ear, reporting on the individual activities as promptly as they occurred. 

At last, "We've surrounded the location." 

He compelled himself to stop his frantic movements, afraid to miss a word. 

"No motion through the windows. But it's definitely the place." 

The place where she had to be... all this time... at _gunpoint_... 

"All teams are in position." 

He could just picture the agents creeping along, as black as the night around them, wearing flak jackets and night-vision goggles, carrying huge automatic rifles, waiting for the final order to attack... 

"All necessary force is authorized." 

Yes - kill every single one of them. _But don't hurt HER!_

Don't let _them_ hurt her! 

"All units, stand by." 

This was it: in one more instant, the very best of the Secret Service would show the world that no one messes with the President of the United States. They were going to blast into that building, shoot at anyone suicidal enough to oppose them, and whisk his wife to safety. 

If this worked out right. 

_If it didn't..._

These were professionals. They'd have planned this down to the last detail. They were prepared to die in her defense. They would get her out. 

They _had_ to. 

" _Go_." 

No doubt the earpiece picked up the echo of smashing wood and blasting gunfire that immediately surrounded the agents on the other end. He could almost hear it himself. He clenched his fists and tensed every muscle in his body. No one could be expected to interpret much from a fusillade like that. He and Ron both had to wait until the assault teams could report on something besides flying bullets. 

"They're in. Not meeting much resistance." 

His breath whooshed out - only to be held again. He ignored the acid burning in his chest. Not until this was over and an unqualified success... not until she was safe... 

"They're heading upstairs." 

It was taking _too long_. Every second from the first sound of attack increased her danger exponentially. He blinked at the perspiration stinging his eyes and leaned forward in unendurable suspense. Wishing he could catapult himself through the air straight to the location of that gunfire right now. The risk to himself meant nothing. With every atom of his being, he wanted to _be_ there. 

Time crept by... and yet, conversely, seemed to roar forward like a rocket totally out of control, beyond any hope of stopping until it hit something. 

Ron pressed a hand to his earphone, making sure its messages came through clearly. 

_What is happening?_ he almost bellowed, hanging onto every word and motion, in a frenzy to know. All it would take was one kidnapper left alive long enough to pull a trigger - 

Something about Ron's expression changed. 

He noticed at once and locked on even tighter, striving to interpret every single nuance. He saw the eyes widen just a bit, the eyebrows lift, the lips part... all tiny indications of - _what_? 

Great news, or _catastrophic_ news? There was no gray area here. 

Ron started to turn. To face his leader. Finally, to give his leader the one piece of information for which he had waited so very long... 

Ron's eyes... 

There was no triumph in them. Only - regret. _Devastation_. 

And he knew. Knew straight through his soul. Knew what, with all their preparation and skill and strength, they had failed to prevent. 

The whole world contracted as, right here and now, the very best part of him died. 

He _screamed_ , with all his strength, a horrific sound ripped from the very core of his being. " _ABBEY!_ " 

The door to the Chief of Staff's office slammed open as Leo charged into the Oval Office at a run. "What -" 

Bartlet lurched back into _this_ world, gasping frantically for air. His heart threatened to explode right out of his chest. His body protested all over, as though he'd been in a heavyweight championship fight and lost. His throat burned from a cry of such anguish that it had to have been real. His head hurt so much, he wished it would just fall off and spare him further pain. He trembled all over as if from the ague. He could feel the clamminess of his shirt, the coldness of his hands and feet, the dampness on his face. And over everything else, the piercing emotional agony of what he had just experienced. 

"Mr. President! Sir!" Leo was shouting at him, from some absurdly far away place. "Damn it, _Jed_! Can you hear me?" 

That personal name did it. He turned slowly to his best friend, reached for his help, latched onto his arm. Leo gripped his shoulder in return, solid and real, supportive and comforting. Like an anchor, the simple touch steadied his spinning brain. He struggled to think. 

He was in the Oval Office, on the couch - or rather, half-off it by now - gazing blankly up at his right-hand man, still unable to process everything that had happened. He remembered only that supremely soul-destroying news. 

The rest didn't matter. _Nothing_ mattered. He wanted only to die. 

"Sir?" Leo persisted urgently, not about to let him retreat into his fathomless grief. 

Dragged back to this moment, the President of the United States looked around in a stunned daze. Two Secret Service agents were also there, watching him, not as stoic as usual. 

Wait; neither of them was the man he last remembered seeing. 

"Where..." It hurt to speak, even at a whisper, but he had to get the demand out, had to get an answer. "Where's Ron?" 

"Butterfield?" Leo frowned in confusion. Still, he shot a questioning glance at the agents hovering nearby. 

One of them shrugged, strangely calm. "He was in the command post a few minutes ago." 

All three men stared down at their leader, obviously wondering what the blue devil was going on. 

But now he knew. 

Ron hadn't been here. 

The assault hadn't taken place. 

_Abbey -_

Was still alive. 

Therefore, so was he. 

"A dream," he croaked hoarsely past ragged gasps. "It wasn't real." 

That explained everything to everyone else. 

Leo took charge at once, thinking of both recovery and privacy. "Thanks, men. Looks like we'll be okay." 

That did seem to be the case; even the most powerful man in the world was permitted to sleep, and to dream, once in a while. The two agents obeyed... although they probably went no further than right outside that door, just in case something else came up that _really_ needed their defensive skills. 

Leo waited until the portal closed, then turned back to the badly-shaken man on the sofa. He didn't need any more details to figure out the whole thing. The only cure was quiet, a little time, and companionship. His features shifted into pure compassion. 

"Come on, sit up." 

Jed allowed himself to be cajoled more or less upright, his head sinking onto the back of the sofa. Cool air seared its way down his raw throat to his straining lungs. Directly above, the plaster relief of the Presidential Seal fogged in and out as his still-shocked brain cells struggled to remain properly online. 

Leo reached out, snagged a hassock and pulled it over, all without breaking his hold - or the hold his friend had on _him_. He settled onto that low seat beside the couch, and waited. 

Gradually, Jed's shivering eased. Step by step, his eyes lost their glazed terror, and he could breathe freely again. He could think. 

"Dear God... it wasn't _real_." 

He remembered everything now: his daughters coming to see him, Eleanor tricking him into a nap. A drug-imposed nap, which had done precisely what he'd feared all along would happen if he slept: compromised his self-control, broke those iron bonds he'd forced upon the howling demons of his imagination, and set them free at last. 

"I still can't believe they did that," he murmured absently. 

"Who did what?" 

He caught himself before he let anything else slip. However wrong his daughters might have been, however many crimes they might have committed in governmental eyes, they had acted solely out of concern for him. He could let them get away with that. No one else needed to know what protective measures those girls were capable of when their worry for their parents climbed high enough. One could be accused of far worse misdeeds. 

If not for that sedative, he wouldn't have dreamed. But it was only a dream! 

"Forget it." 

Leo hesitated, then complied, likewise making no mention of the heart-wrenching cry that had brought him running. "Sounded like one hell of a nightmare." He certainly didn't have to ask what about. "But as far as we know, she's still fine." They _both_ needed to hear those words now. "Are you going to be all right?" 

Jed wasn't all right yet, by any means. He ached in too many places to identify them all. But he'd take the punishment any day, so long as that dream _stayed_ a dream. _Not real_. 

One pain did stand out. He lifted his free hand to his still-heaving chest. For one endless splinter of time, he had absolutely believed that Abbey... 

Leo instantly assumed the worst, his face tightening in renewed fear. "Heart attack?" 

Jed thought about it. "No... not physical." Although it _did_ feel like that vital organ had been literally ripped out of him... 

Leo heaved an enormous sigh, of both relief and sympathy. "Okay. Just stay put for a bit." 

Jed had no desire to do otherwise - except bask in the all-encompassing knowledge that she was _alive_. 

His eyes continued to smart. Feeling secure enough now to release Leo's arm, he fumbled for a handkerchief and pressed it to his sweat-streaked face; then he made at least an attempt to straighten his disheveled hair. Each motion reasserted that he was awake, that this was real. Meaning that the other memory was _not_. 

His best friend, right-hand man and the person most responsible for his well-being at this moment did not let go of his shoulder; he still looked more than a little worried. "What about another kind of attack?" 

The whole world knew about the MS by now. No way could he pass an episode off as a dizzy spell or a flu bug - not to his staff, nor to the nation. And stress of _any_ sort was a major contributor. 

That mere thought infused new determination. Jed sat up, casting off the image of weakness. "Not gonna happen. If I collapse now, then my enemies will win, pure and simple. They'll have proven that I can't handle this job, that I _should_ resign. I am _not_ going to permit that. For Abbey's sake, for my own sake, for this country's sake. Nothing's going to get in my way - not even me!" 

Leo's breath hissed out in overriding frustration. "There's a limit to what sheer will power can accomplish, you know! When was your last injection?" Things had to be dire indeed for this paragon of discretion to make so blunt a reference to so sensitive a topic. 

"What time is it now?" Daylight streamed through the Office windows, in contrast to the blackest night Jed recalled last. 

Leo darted a fast glance at his watch, reluctant to look away for even a second. "Six fifty-three." 

"Then it was less than seven hours ago." 

Jed didn't doubt that, after their visit to him, his daughters had visited their honorary uncle next door and reported on the President finally getting some sleep - although they probably left out a detail or two. He had no problem letting Leo draw his own conclusions; he hadn't been exaggerating when he told his Secretary of Agriculture over a year ago that he trusted his Chief of Staff with his very life. 

Come to think of it, that shot of betaseron probably prevented an attack just now, when he awakened under such merciless emotional assault. No stress he'd ever experienced before could possibly compare... 

Jed wondered briefly what sedative Eleanor had used. Most likely either a mild or a diluted one; she wouldn't have wanted to knock him out _too_ thoroughly, confident that his utter weariness would do the rest. He suspected that he would have made up in one stretch for most of that lost sleep over the past two days, if nothing and no one had interrupted. 

Maybe he should be almost grateful for the dream: it woke him up early. 

And if he was awake, he could work. He could strive to bring his wife home all the sooner. He could destroy that dream and everything it implied. 

He could also get back at his scheming daughters, by resuming far sooner than they'd expected. Consider it a fringe benefit. 

One thing he did _not_ want them to know, however, was just where that best-intentioned scheme had sent him. They'd feel horrid. 

Time to fly back into it. He pushed himself forward. His pounding headache objected. 

So did Leo. "Hey, take it easy." 

Jed brushed away the ache and the restraining hands. "I'm through wasting time." 

"Getting sleep you need is not a waste of time." 

"Well, I've just had my sleep - and if that's what sleep does these days I want no more of it." 

"Sir -" 

"Don't coddle me, Leo. I've had enough of that for one night, believe me." The President gathered his strength and, exercising considerable caution, stood. His muscles obeyed fairly well. He didn't even waver much. 

He liked to think that pure obstinacy helped to shore up his health. True, he did seem better, physically, than before Ellie and Zoey visited. He had needed to rest. He felt stronger now. The impact of that dream had faded and his body was recuperating. There might have been some benefit from this after all. He intended to use it to the max. 

In fact, the entire threat of succumbing to his precarious health in times of trial had just receded in likelihood. That alone went a long way towards lightening his load and fortifying his defenses. No matter what crises he faced, he would not defeat _himself_. 

While the dream had existed, he had believed it. Waking from it, knowing it to be mere false shadows generated by his own ravaging turmoil, somehow gave the world a brighter splash of color, and bestowed upon him a greater source of energy. Abbey might not have come back from the dead in truth, yet he still felt a surge of euphoria... and a greater resolve than ever to cherish her. To rescue her. 

She was still alive. He was going to bring her _home_ alive. Period. No other option would be considered. 

"I am _not_ going to give in to whosoever dares threaten my wife." He fixed his gaze on a distant horizon, a horizon that would be shaped according to _his_ will. His voice became rock-hard. 

"I won't let that nightmare come true." 


	17. Other Half of My Soul, The 17

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 17 ~ 

"Dr. Bartlet?" Pause. "Mrs. Bartlet, can you hear me?" Another pause. " _Abbey?_ " 

People who have been hung over before never forget the feeling. People who have gone through the torment of drug withdrawal never forget that. Abigail Bartlet had witnessed both occasions before in others, both as a doctor of twenty-six years and as a human with an outgoing personality, but she could not speak from direct personal experience in either. All she knew was that she felt _awful_. 

It had seemed like an age of the universe when she could hear nothing at all, or see, or move; and then a whole different epoch when she could hear... hear someone calling her, over and over... but simply could not muster enough energy to respond, or even think. Now, at last, the smothering blanket began to lift and let her go. 

"Oh, finally. What a relief. You really had me scared." 

With hearing came sight, hazy yet clearing moment by moment. The fact that she recognized the voice helped her eyes to interpret what they saw that much faster. 

"What..." Her throat rasped weakly, as though it had forgotten how to form sound. 

"It's okay. You're all right. Well... considering." 

With sight came understanding. With understanding came recollection. The relays began to click into place. 

The dinner. The limo. The phony agents. The gas. 

"Lilli..." Her closest colleague and partner in this nightmare. She was here. 

"Colleen..." Her bodyguard, who had tried so hard to protect her. She was _not_ here. 

Then, the most important name of all. Indirectly, the cause of all this. " _Jed -_ " 

In that frozen instant, she could have sworn she heard him call her name. No, more like a shout. No - even _worse_ \- 

She raised her head, searching desperately for that man. 

"Careful; don't move too fast." Gentle hands offered welcome strength. One slow inch at a time, she sat up on the bed and eased her legs over its side. And just sat there, blinking, head hanging, waiting for the world to hold still. 

Jed wasn't here. She was on her own. 

"How do you feel?" 

"Like... death warmed over." Head achy, stomach queasy, eyes gritty, mouth stale and dry. But every minute of consciousness helped chase those symptoms away, or at least beat them back. After a few more seconds she turned without fearing that her skull might come loose. 

Lilli Mayes sat beside her, supportive both spiritually and physically, expression of acute concern. She still wore her earth-tone dress from the ASPCA dinner, her hair free of that handsome metal clip she had surrendered in the limo. Abbey paused to examine herself, taking absent note of the creases in her fiery red gown and the tangles in her own long hair. Now she could add grimy to the list of complaints. 

"There's a bathroom through that door." Lilli nodded to one side. "A drink and some water on your face will help." Her tone fluctuated between gently comforting a befuddled friend... and respectfully addressing her boss - who also happened to be the wife of her elected leader. 

The First Lady of the United States took in their surroundings for the first time. The door her Chief of Staff had indicated was one of only two in their none-too-spacious prison. The room itself contained two simple beds, an overhead bulb that shed all the light they had, and a heavily-boarded window. Nothing else; not even carpet. 

Abbey's first thought was that they hadn't been given much with which to be comfortable or to fight. Her second was that water sounded like a not-so-thin slice of heaven. 

"Marvelous idea." 

Lilli carefully helped her stand, and stepped in as a human crutch. 

The washroom was only slightly better appointed. By the time she'd scrubbed her face awake and drunk at least a quart of water from her cupped hands, Abbey felt substantially more human, though still drained. She even made it back to her bed unassisted - more or less. 

She glanced warily at the second door, but knew the truth without asking. If it were not locked, this wouldn't be much of a prison. 

Looking a lot less stressed now that her boss was more with it, Lilli took a seat on the other bed, two feet apart, so that they faced each other and could talk easily. 

"You seem to be feeling all right yourself," her boss observed, with a clear undertone of relief as well. 

"I came to some time ago. Maybe an hour. Whatever they used on us, for some reason it seemed to have more of an effect on you." 

Abbey's eyes narrowed. "Or else they drugged us afterward." 

Lilli's eyes widened at this sudden, unnerving thought. After a startled moment of stillness she clamped her left hand to her right arm, and then pushed up the long sleeve. 

High on the deltoid muscle, at least five tiny red puncture wounds were clearly visible to both of them. 

Abbey nodded wearily. Moving almost in slow motion, she too felt for her upper right arm. Her sleeves had not been designed to roll up past the elbow, though, so she settled for probing the general area. "I'm sure mine looks no different." 

Lilli leaned closer and gently fingered that region as well. "Yes, I think there's some swelling." 

"Great." The First Lady slumped, still too dulled to react with the fear and the outrage this assault merited. "So... half a dozen doses of God knows what. And in my case they must've gone right through the cloth. So much for asepsis." Even still-befogged, a physician's instincts kicked in automatically. She shivered, and not just in apprehension. "Whatever it was, it also causes quite a chill... and if we've been out for twelve or fifteen hours we're dehydrated to boot." Pause. "Say, do you have any allergies?" 

Her Chief of Staff gulped, terrified anew at the thought of drug reactions or physiological reactions, both totally beyond their control. "Uh - not that I know of." 

"Likewise. Let's hope we don't find out to the contrary. I rather doubt our new friends here would be too inclined to sponsor a trip to the emergency ward." 

Lilli's silence agreed. Then something new occurred to her and she looked at the window. "Those boards are pretty thick, and there's a curtain between them and the glass, but I found a slight crack. It's day." 

Abbey forced herself to consider this calmly, thinking much the same thing. "The question is, whereabouts in the day." She processed the facts lethargically yet methodically; it made her feel better to prove that she could think at all. "In general, a gaseous form doesn't last long. They must've followed it up pretty soon with the needles, and then hit us again every time we started to come around. It depends on both the drug type and the volume, but I doubt I'd feel this bad after only a few hours. Hardly any of my patients suffer from anesthesia, unless they were under a very long time. That could be sunrise or sun _set_ out there." 

She released a long exhalation, fighting the stuff lingering in her system. "A good thing these lunatics opted for frequent small injections rather than one big dosage; an OD of _any_ substance can be lethal. We should be grateful they didn't accidentally kill us outright." 

Abbey propped up her heavier-than-normal head and massaged her pounding temples. "Either way, Lilli, I'm doubly glad you're handling this so well. I'm in no position right now to treat anyone... not even myself. Thanks for standing in." 

"My pleasure, ma'am." 

The First Lady rolled her eyes, even though it increased her dizziness. "Offhand, I'd say this is not the time for social formalities." 

Her companion blushed a bit. "Sorry. Old habits die hard." Besides, titles and status only emphasized the brutal fact that, to certain individuals, Lilli's life was worth a lot less. 

Abbey looked around again, noting the total absence of basic appliances and décor. She glanced instinctively at her right wrist, but her watch was, of course, not there. She sighed in honest irritation, glad to have any kind of lighthearted distraction right now. "Well, we're certainly a bit overdressed for this particular event. Still, I can't help feeling _under_ dressed as well, without watch _or_ earrings." 

Lilli managed a grin, instinctively fingering her own bare earlobes. "Agreed one hundred percent." 

This scene took on an attitude of bizarre incongruity: a highly-placed employee of the White House and a woman who was one of the most famous faces in the nation, both in wrinkled evening finery, both recovering from forced sedation, seated on hideously Spartan beds in a nondescript bedroom from which they could not leave, captives of an unknown organization in an unknown location, casually discussing their ordeal as though they had nothing whatsoever to worry about. 

But they did have things to worry about - lots of them. They'd been abducted at gunpoint, by people who could not possibly have gotten close enough to try this without killing at least two Secret Service agents first, for the sole purpose of blackmailing the American President into some kind of political concession. They had no idea where they were, or who their captors were, or how many. Their simple quarters suggested either a brief stay before being moved elsewhere... or else a disturbingly short captivity overall. They were far from help and quite defenseless. They faced the uncertainty, the fear and the abiding boredom of imprisonment, which is hard on both the mind and the body. And last but not least, they could be killed in an instant, on a mere whim. 

The terror started to build. Neither of them had any reason at all to hope that they might actually live through this. A lot of kidnappers chose not to risk being identified, and both women had seen at least one of their kidnappers' faces. 

Abbey pivoted in place to study the window. It had been boarded up beyond all forcing with any tool smaller than a crowbar. Beyond it, somewhere, how far she couldn't guess, was the White House. Her home. Her family. 

People who had to be frantic over her by now. People who, not just for their own sakes but also for the sake of an entire nation, had to get her back. People who presumably hadn't the first idea where to look for her. 

"I can just imagine the excitement in certain circles right about now," she murmured, her low voice accentuating the massive understatement. 

Lilli's features tightened in sympathy... and in something else: a pain all her own. The Bartlets would be worried sick - not just because of their missing matriarch, but because their patriarch happened to be the leader of the free world. 

The Mayes did not share such an honor or a burden, but they did share the same horror at this sundering of their family unity. 

Abbey hadn't forgotten that. She reached across the narrow space between them and touched Lilli's arm. "I am so sorry you had to be dragged into this." 

Her friend blinked several times, fighting her emotions. "It's all right." 

"No, it's _not_. You have your own husband - who must be climbing the walls himself. You haven't been trained for this kind of situation. You're not supposed to be at risk. Your family shouldn't be cursed by the danger that dogs _my_ family." 

Slowly, Lilli pulled herself together, levelheaded and brave in her own right. " _Your_ family shouldn't be cursed like this, either. But if you _have_ to go through it, you shouldn't have to endure it alone." She placed her hand over that of her boss in a pledge. 

Abbey couldn't help it; she smiled, as broadly as though she hadn't a care in the world. "Thank you." 

In the quiet of friendship that enwrapped them, Lilli's grasp turned Abbey's hand a few extra degrees, so that her diamond engagement ring caught the light. A simple movement, an innocent one, with a universe of meaning behind it. The eyes of the two women flashed together. 

They could not know if there were any hidden microphones or cameras around. That would be a sensible way for the captors to monitor the captives, to guard against things like escape plans and covert signals. So far, these two women had said or done nothing out of keeping for prisoners with no means to help themselves, and they wanted to keep it that way. Their future survival - indeed, their _current_ survival - depended on nonresistance. 

Right behind that diamond, closest to the metacarpal knuckle, the third ring waited. It looked an exact match to its companions. 

It was a basic aspect of security that the fewest people possible knew about that minuscule transponder, and only those in whom the Secret Service had perfect trust. It did pay to have at least one close confidant in the know, in case - for whatever disastrous reason - the protectee could not signal unassisted. In this case, Lilli Mayes and Special Agent Reilly had been the logical choices. 

Lilli also knew not to try to activate the ring herself, while her boss remained unconscious; not unless time became truly critical to her boss's very life. If their foes were watching them covertly, they'd be sure to wonder about the strange interest that a mere assistant had in the First Lady's jewelry. Because of her caution, at least an additional hour had been lost... but that was preferable to compromising the ring's secret. 

Right now Lilli's raised eyebrows asked a question. Abbey's lowered brows answered in the negative. She did not dare initiate the signal so soon. While it seemed reasonable that one hand playing nervously with rings on the other would not engender criminal suspicion in itself, she knew for a fact that their abductors could detect electronic transmissions such as hers. She doubted they'd continue to scan regularly, since the initial report in the limo was negative - but they would almost certainly be scanning right now. If they did think that she might have some other means of signaling for help, they'd expect her to use it as soon as she woke up. This ring was her only ace, a precious advantage vital to her, to Lilli, and to the people searching for them. If it got picked up by the wrong party, the transponder would be confiscated even if that meant amputation... and who knew what other punishment might be in store as well. 

On the other hand, Abbey would have to take the plunge at some point. She couldn't become so paranoid that she feared to transmit at all. That would undermine the entire concept. 

In silence, she breathed a prayer of gratitude that their captors had used the scanner in the limo. Without such knowledge she almost certainly would have activated her SOS at once - and thereby played right into their hands. That unintentional demonstration of theirs now saved her from ruining everything right off the bat. 

A change from this silent subject would be both wise and welcome. "Have you seen anything of our hosts?" 

"Neither sign nor sound," Lilli said, somehow expressing both relief and regret. "You think they're ignoring us?" 

"I _wish_." But of course there was next to no chance for that. "Damn. I want to know what happened to Colleen." 

"Assuming they're inclined to tell us." 

"If we stay on our best behavior, hopefully they will as well." 

" _If_ ," Lilli repeated in a very soft voice. 

Her boss responded just as softly. "We won't make any sudden moves; not unless we're absolutely sure what action to take, and that we have no choice but to risk it. Besides, I don't want to compromise my dignity." 

For a moment Abbey made it sound like she really valued such a superficial image in such a crisis. Lilli reacted with genuine disbelief, so the First Lady clarified, sotto vocce. "Odds are good our captors don't expect anything out of character from me. They might not even think I'm capable of it." For a moment her smile was dangerous, quite eager to prove them wrong. "But if we give them any trouble, they might tighten the grip on us, and that would drastically reduce our chances for escape. I want to save the surprises for later, when their guard is down." 

Lilli nodded, seeing her point. 

"However." Abbey grasped her companion's hand a bit tighter, demanding her undivided attention. "That deceptive image may well apply only to me. They're probably less trusting of you. Don't try anything unless we discuss it first." 

Lilli definitely got the point this time. By comparison, she was less than worthless. 

"So." Abbey sat back a bit and raised her voice to a more normal level. "I wonder just how many people we're up against. We've only met two so far." 

Lilli pondered. "Well, there must be at least three of them, since someone had to set off that fire alarm and then open the garage door." 

"Which means we're outnumbered, to say nothing of outgunned." 

"Aw, these poor idiots don't have a chance!" Humor can lighten the darkest moments. 

Abbey frowned. "Careful. They've already used lethal force at least once. Why should they hesitate to do so again? They could be listening in right now, and I don't want them to think we're serious." 

Her unspoken words echoed between them: _At least, not yet._

She glanced around again, then rose and wandered over to peer through the crack in the window barrier. There wasn't much else to do anyway. 

"This is such a narrow field of view, I can't even be sure that's a city out there. God knows where we might be. You wouldn't think they'd manage to get us far from DC, with the whole Armed Forces howling on their heels." 

Lilli said nothing. If you _had_ to be kidnapped, there were advantages to being kidnapped with the First Lady. The government would spare no effort or expense in finding them. 

Also, the kidnappers would _supposedly_ take good care of such valuable prisoners - so long as they _stayed_ valuable. 

Abbey paused, her train of thought steaming along. "Which brings us to the big question of why we're here in the first place." 

"That seems obvious enough..." 

"Uh-huh." She rested her elbows on the windowsill and her forehead against the wooden panels, and closed her eyes against the pictures stomping through her brain. "Because my husband got himself elected once too often." 

She could just imagine: the national upheaval no doubt already underway, the White House staff frantically trying to cope. She had no illusions about her worth as political currency, or the amount of political conflict such worth would cause. 

She did not want to imagine Jed's situation. For sure he'd be in a raging panic over her welfare, but raging wouldn't change the no-win scenario of his official position on non-negotiation. Add to that the unremitting stresses of running an entire country that couldn't simply stop, even for a kidnapping of this magnitude... plus the morbid attention of the public... and _then_ factor in his less-than-ideal health. 

Their daughters would watch out for him. So would his staff, especially Leo and Charlie. Of course, Jed was far too stubborn to listen to anyone for long... except _maybe_ his wife. 

Their daughters... those three precious, unique identities she had borne and nurtured and watched grow into womanhood... 

Then there were her own parents, who had watched her grow... who were such a deeply fundamental part of her existence... 

Still, it all came back to _him_. In some twisted, abstract, totally non-culpable fashion, this was his fault. And it was her fault as well - for not pounding sense into him before this. 

No. Abbey refused to let either of them bear the blame for the violent actions of lunatics with guns. Not only could the Bartlets not be responsible, they would not be defeated. 

However, they had been separated: torn apart by a force more lethal than the Presidency itself. Her heart manifested a physical ache, as though a huge and vital chunk of it had been gouged right out. She wondered if this was what it felt like to lose one of your limbs, an essential part of the whole. 

There was a world of difference between Jed being killed by his MS, or any other natural cause... and Jed being killed by human intent. Even second-hand, long-distance intent by cowards who dared not look him in the eye. He'd been haunted by his health for eight years, and stalked by his job for three. It would be at least a bit less unbearable for him to succumb to God's decree, eventually, rather than right now to a mortal agent who just didn't like him. 

If she had to go on without him, life would have little appeal ever again. 

If he died this way - because of _her_ \- life would be unendurable. 

Abbey strove to ignore that paralyzing train of thought. She wanted to concentrate on better moments, memories that would help her get through this. 

Pleasant memories seemed depressingly rare of late. She and Jed had been locked in an ongoing battle of wills for ages, saying more with their silences than with their voices, yet still saying less than they ought to have said. They'd always resolved their disagreements in the past; they could've worked this one out as well, long ago. Elections, deals, even impeachment - these issues all paled before the ultimate value of life itself. 

Why had it taken a nightmare like this to point out the futility of all that lingering anger and resentment? Why couldn't they have made up, realized the genuine triviality of such things on their own, without being wrenched apart and wondering if they'd ever see each other again? Why hadn't he apologized - why hadn't she forgiven him - yesterday? When they were still together? 

Right this moment Abigail Bartlet would give just about anything she owned to _know_ that she would get the chance to speak to her husband again, to set things right, to say those words they both needed to hear - even if this finally did end in total disaster. 

_Before it ended_. 

The tears pressed against her eyes from behind, one micron from spilling over... 

She heard a soft step behind, as though Lilli had inched closer to offer some attempt at comfort... 

She heard a door lock click open. 

She heard Lilli suck in a frightened breath. 

She heard a voice: a familiar voice that gave birth to raw anger, that evaporated those encroaching tears in a flash of steam. 

"Ladies! Welcome back to the land of the living. For the moment, that is." 


	18. Other Half of My Soul, The 18

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 18 ~ 

"So, you finally decided to wake up. About time." 

Abbey did not turn right away at this sardonic greeting. She did, however, straighten her posture, not wanting to admit to any weakness before her enemies. 

Then, calling upon all her reserves of poise and composure, locking her features into cold disdain, utterly refusing to show how severely this entire operation affected her, she rotated in place. 

Whatever either captive might have anticipated from criminals desperate enough and efficient enough to pull off an abduction of this magnitude - combat fatigues, camouflage face paint, huge automatic weapons - they did not expect _this_ : business suits, exactly like what they themselves and their colleagues wore every day. Here among the poor surroundings and the prisoners' rumpled eveningwear, this provided the final note of absurdity. 

Any hint of reassurance that such familiar attire might have engendered was negated at once by the large handguns very much in evidence. The woman wore hers in a belt holster, that side of her blazer tucked back behind its grip like a modern-day gunfighter. The man carried his in hand, not aiming at anyone, yet ready for instantaneous use. 

They also wore the same tiny earphones as before... just like the Secret Service style. Which meant, first off, that the mechanisms worked rather than being simple props; and second, that there had to be others involved in this gang, since their members so obviously valued constant communication. 

Abbey got her first good look at both, and engraved their features on the photographic plate of her mind. The woman could not have been less perfectly turned out - gleaming brown-black hair, precise makeup, polished nails, smooth skin. The man appeared just as neat and proper, but the effect for him was spoiled by a pale scar that twisted his upper lip slightly, into a perpetual sneer. In fact he looked positively bestial... and yet despite this, or perhaps because of this, he still seemed only second best. Somehow, for all her flawlessness the woman came across as even more deadly. 

Oh, yes, she was definitely in charge. She wore power like a badge of honor. Again, though, that did not provide much reassurance. A female leader did not necessarily mean a less brutal approach. If it came down to physical punishment, would the man be ordered to administer it, or would his boss see to it herself? With their professional appearance, utilitarian short haircuts and hard features, they looked equally capable. 

That initial heartbeat of frozen stillness passed, overtaken by anger and fear. Lilli moved first, stepping between them and their principle prize with an amazingly calm purpose that belied her valid concern for her own survival. 

Abbey moved next. She'd had more than enough of people risking their lives - and in some cases losing their lives - for her. She placed one hand on Lilli's near shoulder, imparting both a deep gratitude and a firm command, and stepped forward herself, drawing all attention. 

_There's no earthly reason for them to hurt us. Yet._

"At last... you honor us with your presence." 

This woman could summon a dignity to take one's breath away. 

The ringleader didn't look very intimidated. Then again, it's hard to frighten an opponent when you yourself are unarmed. She smiled confidently. "Oh, have my hostessing skills not been up to par? I'll try to correct that. We've arranged a light meal for you." She jerked her head at her companion in obvious command. 

He hesitated, as though worried that his chief, with her prominent weapon, might still be at risk from two helpless female captives - one of whom never acted inappropriately, ever - and then nodded, turned and left. 

The door stayed open. 

Neither captive hinted at any sudden action on their part. That open door was probably more a test of their trustworthiness than for mere convenience. Who knew how many additional enemies waited just outside? They did want to find out - but not _that_ way. 

The female in charge waited as well, alert yet unconcerned. Did she seem just a bit disappointed at this lack of opposition? That would suggest an ugly delight in smacking such opposition down, hard. _Personally._

The man re-entered, balancing a tray while still holding his automatic. He lacked the grace of a trained butler - the First Lady could speak from experience on that - but he set his burden on the closer bed without spilling, then backed off, watching them every step. Clearly there would be no surprising these people anytime soon. 

The offering itself explained a lot as well. Simple fruit juice, in plastic cups. Cold finger food, not requiring either cutlery or cooking, on plastic plates. Everything was basic, nutritious, devoid of any possible tool, and could be prepared with minimal effort. This imprisonment had been long planned, and to considerable detail. 

Neither captive showed any interest in tucking into a pleasant little picnic here. They scorned to show hunger in their enemies' presence if they didn't have to. Besides, trust was in rather short supply today. 

The ringleader rolled her eyes. "What, you think it's poisoned? Why would we resort to such a subterfuge? It's been almost thirty-six hours since your big fancy dinner with the stars; you have to be hungry. No point denying it." 

Abbey went still, trying not to let her expression change, but felt her eyes widen beyond all control. Okay, she'd figured on a lengthy enough blackout after all those shots, but a day and a half? The entire nation had to be in an uproar by now! 

No small wonder, too that she felt cold, weak and headachy. After that length of time under sedation, with no food or water, from multiple injections of an unknown substance of unknown strength, it was miraculous that she could think at all. 

Plus, thirty hours' steady driving could put them in Texas. Or across the Canadian border and well on their way to Yellowknife. 

"I can't say I have much of an appetite at the moment." It was no longer an issue of personal pride; that free factoid on time management had clenched her stomach in sheer dread. 

Lilli nodded in full agreement, looking almost queasy. 

Their jailer shrugged carelessly. "Suit yourselves. If you want to stage a strike or something, it'll hurt you more than it will us." 

Abbey struggled to keep her tone mild, to come across as strong but not antagonistic. She walked a delicate balance indeed. "Well, your _last_ gift left something to be desired." She rubbed just below her right shoulder rather pointedly. 

"Oh, you mean the sedative." The ringleader paused to consider this. "I guess I should apologize. We've had to figure out the dosages as we went along." 

Again Abbey blessed God that they'd survived even this long at such amateur hands. Clearly these were not career criminals, or experts at their illegal trade. That could be good news and bad: they'd be more prone to mistakes that prisoners could exploit - but also to overreaction, which might have drastic repercussions all round. 

They also would be virtual unknowns, almost certainly not in any existing database for the Secret Service to trace. 

In the most natural fashion, Abbey fingered her ring. Her first ring only: the genuine wedding band. Surely her captors would never expect her to initiate a call for help while in the very presence of their chief. Just in case, though, she didn't want to associate even so innocent a movement as this with the briefest blips they might detect. A blind or two would be wise before she triggered the transponder for real. 

Even Lilli didn't notice. She was preoccupied with rubbing her own left hand absently, nervously, where her rings used to be. 

The female chieftain shifted, looking even more important. "On to the sobering details. Believe me or not as you wish, Mrs. Bartlet, but we have no desire to make your stay particularly unpleasant. So long as you and Lilli use a little common sense, you'll have nothing to fear. For now." 

Of course, she just _had_ to add that little tag. 

Why on earth should they believe her? 

Even with her life at risk, Abbey remained regal and aloof; her foes expected no less. If she came across as submissive and didn't stand on the oftentimes-demonstrated poise of her high position and public image, it would raise suspicions at once - quite aside from posing a severe challenge to her acting skills. When the time came to throw appearances to the winds and flee - or fight - she would need every element of surprise. 

Conversely, she must not present too much resistance; this was only a verbal conflict and contest of wills. For now. 

She also wanted to keep their attention on her, and not on Lilli. 

"You know, conversation would be a lot easier if we were all properly introduced." 

The woman in charge all but sneered at her. "That's asking a bit much, ma'am." 

"I suppose asking the truth would be too much. But if you can't come up with a _nom de guerre_ , I'm sure I can." Just maybe, pursuing this inconsequential point would be an added distraction and help convince the kidnappers of their prisoners' harmlessness. If Abbey wanted to waste her time on something so unimportant... "Don't worry - I won't suggest 'Boris' and 'Natasha.' That's a little over-stereotyped." 

The ringleader folded her arms aggressively, making it clear that she would not welcome anything insulting. "You're too kind." 

At least she didn't forbid the entire exercise. 

"Hm. 'Sam' and 'Libby' are out for similar reasons." Abbey had no intention of comparing her abductors to Uncle Sam and Lady Liberty. She pretended to ponder another moment, and then to brighten. "Would 'Punch' and 'Judy' do?" 

Lilli choked down a snicker. 

Their captor frowned. "Why? What's so funny?" 

"I have no idea," Abbey deadpanned, frowning at her colleague as well. If these two had never heard of the British puppet comedy team, they couldn't take offense. 

The man clenched his left fist in appreciation. "Works for me." 

His boss made an inarticulate noise in her throat that could be labeled noncommittal. "Whatever." She seemed to forget about pursuing an explanation, which was just as well. Abbey wanted to establish some small control over this whole surreal situation for her own peace of mind as much as any other reason, and was willing to risk some small displeasure from her captors in the process, but she didn't want to press her luck. 

"I do have one question." 

The newly-christened "Judy" smirked. "Only one?" No doubt she thought she knew exactly what it would be... 

"Where is Colleen Reilly?" 

Their principle enemy seemed surprised, even confused, clearly not expecting that question. "Why on earth would you care? She's just an employee, someone paid to keep an eye on you. Hell, she's supposed to die for you. How much could she possibly matter?" 

Abbey seized upon the use of the present tense here, but didn't betray that spark of hope. "She is a friend. She is a dedicated staff member. She is a human being." Thus did she list, in deliberate order, the reasons why everyone should value the life in question. "So are the two agents assigned to drive me home." Her own choice of tense was just as deliberate, even though Abbey knew that those two operatives could not realistically be alive. 

A casual shrug. "All humans are useful. Some, admittedly, more so than others. Your escorts delivered a very specific message for us. So did Colleen, for that matter." 

Lilli tensed at the use of the past tense here. Abbey's lips tightened. A dead body can convey far more than words. 

Judy could not have missed their reactions. She clearly enjoyed playing with them like this. 

"And what might those messages have been?" the First Lady inquired levelly. There was no point in playing cloak and dagger on this point: either their captor would tell them, or she wouldn't. She'd never believe that they didn't want to know. 

In every evidence of nervousness at what she was about to learn, Abbey rubbed her second ring: the engagement band. Its solitaire sparkled. Lilli noticed this time, resisted the almost irresistible urge to see which ring had been chosen, and carefully turned her gaze away. 

"Well, since you asked so nicely, I'll tell you." Judy seemed determine to cut them down at every opportunity. "The first message was that we are deadly serious about this." 

Serious enough to kill two employees who were just doing their job. 

Abbey rode the wave of grief and surmounted it. Just maybe the second message would be different - the odds didn't favor it, but - 

"The second message was that we can be trusted to play our part in this like civilized beings. _If_ your husband acts wisely." 

Lilli couldn't prevent herself from sagging in relief. If Reilly had not been killed, then they had at least a chance of living through this as well. 

Abbey didn't relax one bit. Her husband's actions had been predetermined the moment he took office, and they did _not_ include capitulation. 

Nonetheless, she was willing to believe. Either Judy could shame a lot of Oscar-winning actors, or else she had spoken the frank truth. And Abbey Bartlet had proven herself to be a dead-on judge of character. 

"Thank you for not hurting her." 

Again the lead kidnapper registered surprise. At being believed, or at being thanked? 

"We're not sadists, Mrs. Bartlet. We're patriots. We have a higher purpose than making our fellow citizens suffer." 

"Explain _that_ to the families of the two men you've already murdered!" 

Secret Service training stressed not challenging enemy forces. Abbey tried to rein back her temper, but it wasn't easy. Few things infuriated her more than such disregard for human life. 

"Hey, they were in our way. This is bigger than any of us - including you. We're ready to risk everything for the sake of our country." 

" _So am I_." Now that was a vow. 

Judy completely dismissed this dedication, despite its close resemblance to her own. "If you're lucky, you won't have to. As soon as your husband comes to his senses, he'll get you back in perfect health." 

Again, the vague reference to what they wanted Jed to do for them. Abbey braced herself. "Well, my experience is that he's in his right mind the vast majority of the time." Of course, she _could_ have mentioned a few exceptions. "What exactly is this cause of yours about?" 

"Now why should I share that information with you?" 

"What could we possibly do with that information?" Abbey countered, not forgetting to include Lilli in this. "We're hardly going anywhere. Considering what you've already put us through, I think you owe us an explanation. At the very least, it would be a courtesy." 

Judy contemplated this for a few moments. That _did_ sound like something the First Lady might say. Then too, since she was the First Lady... "All right, then. Besides, you might even be able to help me anticipate Bartlet's next move." 

Not likely. Talk about sharing state secrets with the enemy! 

Come to think of it, there wasn't that much difference between being a political pawn... and being a prisoner of war. 

"It's quite straightforward, really." The ringleader settled into a real lecturer's stance. "We refuse to abandon our beloved country to the control of a man who deceives the people - and worst of all, about an illness. We want him _out_. Now." 

Lilli gasped sharply. Abbey bit back a similar sound. Both saw at once just how personal this gambit was. Not about money or power, but misguided patriotism. Not blackmail against the United States, or even against one of its allies - but against Jed Bartlet himself. 

Judy's words accelerated. "No one with such a disease has _any_ business in power. No wonder he lied about it - but that just proves that we can't trust him. This nation's politicians must be held accountable. Your husband is not only sick; he's _terminally_ sick. He's debilitated! He's not fit to lead America." 

She started to pace, arms waving as her rhetoric fed her anger. "And then he has the gall to run again! Well, the general public is too easily fooled, and too forgiving. Campaign promises are always broken. The people and the government both need to learn the same lesson: integrity and health in the leadership of the United States are imperative." 

Up until now she had sounded quite rational, a detailed planner and a cool customer. This subject, however, exposed a raw nerve indeed. It appeared that her demonstrated rationality did not apply to politics or to people she saw as physically flawed, even handicapped. Her pontificating contained a tangible ring of the fanatic. 

_And every government knows how easy it is to reason with fanaticism._

This also made things all the more dangerous for the captives. 

"If he cares for this country half as much as he claims to, he'll resign. Then you two can go home safe and sound, and we can get a new leader who'll do the job right. Someone who can handle the job and knows better than to lie to the people. Someone who's seen what _will_ happen to those who abuse the highest honor in the land." 

From the sound of it, this had become a crusade, against any potential President that didn't measure up in Punch and Judy's eyes - medically or politically. 

Wait a minute... did they already have a specific candidate in mind? Someone they believed would shake up the nation the "right" way... or someone they thought they could manipulate? 

If Bartlet resigned, John Hoynes would step forward. Could _he_ possibly be involved...? 

If not, then he'd somehow have to be removed as well... 

Leaving aside the personal angle, this could cascade right through the entire government! 

Abbey just stood there and let the rage flood through her, banishing the fear. She could envision, as though it were playing out before her now, what Jed was going through, both mentally and physically. For one split-instant she considered saying as much, detailing the torture this act of domestic terrorism would cause, stressing all the anxiety and the unbearable pressure her husband would be under, railing against such heartlessness towards anyone, much less the nation's elected leader... then changed her mind fast. That would only give her enemy further ammunition - in particular about a leader who can't be relied upon precisely because of unstable health. 

Maybe she should paint a picture instead about how her children must be hurting as well... 

The ultimate irony was how Jed's reneging on his deal with his wife led directly to this nightmare for all of them. If only he'd kept their bargain! Perhaps then Judy and her comrades would have been content to let him finish his one term, especially with all the legal procedures that might even have ousted him sooner. Either way, none of this would be happening now. 

Then Abbey's thoughts made a sharp right turn. She herself did not want him running again - for much the same reason that Judy didn't. The ironies just kept accumulating. 

Even so, she didn't want him to quit this way! 

Come what may, he couldn't quit. He simply would not be able to give in, no matter how willingly he'd pay any price for her sake. The welfare of the nation and the civilized world depended on him refusing to capitulate. Oh sure, everyone knew of his devotion as a husband, which was precisely why these gangsters expected their plan to work in the first place... but neither Jed nor Abbey Bartlet would yield to the threat of force. They'd discussed this before. The time had come to stand by their duty and their beliefs - even if it _cost_ them their lives. 

In the sudden silence, the First Lady shook her head pityingly at such a misguided diatribe. Her jailers would find nothing odd about that. Nor should they wonder about her again fidgeting with her rings... as she rubbed the third one very carefully. 


	19. Other Half of My Soul, The 19

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 19 ~ 

The Oval Office hummed audibly. It resembled the vortex of a whirlpool, or of a cyclone, or of an electric dynamo: where tremendous forces swirl in from different directions to meet and to combine, where the sheer power of the storm is at its most intense. 

The generator driving these forces tirelessly - indeed, furiously - sat behind that desk. All reports came to him; all messengers spoke to him. His right-hand man stood by his side, providing all the formidable experience he possessed, and his personal aide hovered in the background, ever on call should he be needed. Both, however, were rarely noticed. The man behind the desk focused all eyes, all energies. 

Somewhere in the early morning of this second FLOTUS-less workday, Toby came by. "Mr. President. I just got off the phone with the Chairman of the Fed." 

"I saw yesterday's opening figures." Bartlet sifted through the mountain of paperwork before him, going from one topic to another, never stopping. "They took such a dive, I half-expected the brokers to rush out and buy parachutes." He looked up over the rims of his spectacles, eyes sharp and cold like glittering icicles. "So, based on the new numbers today, if they _had_ jumped, would they have hit bottom by now, or would they still be falling?" 

Toby resisted his natural inclination to wisecrack in turn. The whole staff feared to say the wrong thing and damage this new source of strength their leader had found. They were just so glad that he had found it. "Actually, the market _has_ rebounded quite a bit. Steinberg says there wasn't even much of an overall loss." 

"So, people are over their initial panic that the President or even the government might go down," Leo observed caustically. "Three cheers for America the brave." 

"Investors panic at every ripple," his boss retorted, shrugging off the whole fickle concept of international finance. "That's what they _pay_ to do." 

Toby shifted his feet. "Well, right now what they're doing is giving the credit of renewed stability to you, sir." 

All three knew that to be no exaggeration. The trade index had plunged with the First Lady's abduction, anticipating administrative disaster - disaster which the country now realized its executive branch was not going to permit. The stock market had finally twigged to what the entire West Wing knew all along. 

Bartlet didn't look up again, distinctly uninterested. "Tell them to hold off on the medal ceremony. I'm an economist, not a miracle worker." He sighed bitterly. "Always glad to make _some_ people happy. Now let's just hope the DSA doesn't read the Wall Street Journal." 

Toby sighed as well, in morose agreement. How ironic if this economic resurgence, essential to the nation's welfare, revealed exactly what the White House did not want their enemies to find out: that their leader was still very much in control. 

"Yes, sir." He caught Leo's eye, they traded a solemn nod, and the Director of Communications took his leave. 

He strode down the central corridor to the main crossroads and turned left. Seconds later, Sam approached that same crossroads from the right, missing his boss completely, and headed for the Oval Office himself. 

"Mr. President?" 

"What've you got, Sam?" Bartlet barely glanced at him, pursuing the endless parade of briefs without pause. 

"Among other things, a badly overloaded E-mail server and a stressed-out switchboard. Messages are coming in like you wouldn't believe, from all over the world." Sam tried to quash his smile of pure wonder, and didn't quite succeed. "It's magnificent!" 

The President went still. With his head lowered, they couldn't really see his expression. 

"Yes. It is." 

Sam held himself back for another moment, trying hard to gauge the exact level of feeling behind that single line. How far did he dare go in his desire to console? 

"Sir... you should go and have a look at the main gate. The flowers, the candles, the cards tied to the fence..." 

Leo threw him a warning glare. Too late - Bartlet had straightened in his seat. 

Sam gulped, impaled by the flashing blades in those steel-blue eyes. He'd put his foot in his mouth yet again. Of course his leader had been virtually boycotting the news; he didn't need to add photos of reality to the images chasing around in his mind. 

The Deputy Communications Director was desperate to repair whatever new damage he feared he'd caused. It required all the nerve he could muster to speak again. "Sir, I think it'd do you good to see for yourself. The public support - it's _amazing_." 

Well, _that_ would sure make things better. He braced himself to be sliced to ribbons - 

"You're probably right." 

The President turned away, breaking the visual hold. Sam began to breathe again. 

"I do appreciate the display of that support." Bartlet gazed out the window into the sun. However, his office faced south, and the main gates were on the other side of the building. 

"People need an outlet for their emotion," the President continued. "This is a good thing." If it occurred to him that he currently held the record for the last person around here to show those emotions, he gave no sign. "I just... don't feel comfortable with it right now." His volume dropped. "It's too much like a tribute to the dead." 

Sam flinched. Leo looked aside. 

The young man simply had to try once more to put a positive spin on this. "Sir -" 

"Sam -" Leo thought that he'd done more than enough already. 

But Sam pressed on, in defiance of common sense and direct orders, driven to put his half-formed feelings into words, compelled to express himself by an instinct he could not name. "Imagine how the First Lady will feel when she sees them hersel -" 

" _Sam_!" 

Oops - he'd crossed the point of no return. All of them had _supposedly_ known better than to refer directly to _her_. Certainly not around her husband. This was Sam Seaborn's hat trick: three goofs in two days. 

Leo looked mad enough to tear his head right off. He started backing away, wondering how far he could hope to run before the Secret Service pulled him down like wolves on a deer. 

"Sorry - I'm sorry..." 

Bartlet pivoted back. Just that simple motion nailed Sam in his tracks. He dragged himself to attention, figuring helplessly that he might as well face his death like a man. 

His leader's glower did not appear to be any more lethal than the norm of late. And - wonder of wonders - one corner of his mouth twitched, as though attempting to smile. 

"It's all right, Sam. Thanks for the thought." 

As Josh approached reception, he looked immediately for Donna. Her desk - strange how quickly he'd adapted to not thinking of it as Charlie's - was vacant. 

"Nancy, where the hell is she?" 

He got the distinct impression that Nancy must have been taking Donnatella lessons of late; her reaction to his imperious demand lacked its former respect. "Oh, she knew you were coming, Josh, so she left while she still could." 

"Yeah, right." Although that _did_ sound like a trick she might pull... 

The Oval Office door opened, and Sam emerged, one uncertain step at a time. Both Josh and Nancy turned his way. He appeared more than a little dazed. 

"Sam?" Josh frowned at his best friend. What could have happened _now_? 

Sam blinked, as though coming out of a hypnotic trance. "I... I think I now know what it feels like to have a stay of execution." 

Josh could make nothing of this. He stood and watched Sam wander off, then looked at that still-open door in fresh apprehension. 

"Josh!" 

He'd been spotted; he could hardly creep away now. Bracing himself, he obeyed the summons and entered. "Mr. President." 

"How are things on the Hill?" Bartlet asked, not looking up from his work. 

"I've been calling people right and left, and so far it's encouraging. Most business hasn't been affected a whole lot." Josh approached as close as he dared. Between Sam's expression a few moments ago and Leo's expression now, he didn't feel safe crowding that desk. 

"Glad to know how much I contribute around here," the President groused. "Still, if the whole system ground to a halt because of me, it'd inflate my ego even more, and none of you need _that_." 

Josh grinned, even though his leader didn't. "Well, just to make you feel better, sir, the House volunteered to postpone the next three votes. I didn't even have to ask." 

Bartlet paused over his current report to survey the multitude still awaiting his attention. "Thereby reducing the number of bills that I can lose around here. Works for me." 

"How's the _mood_?" Leo asked, with telling emphasis. 

His deputy shrugged. "Actually, not all that bad. Aside from annoyances over the traffic tie-downs, that is. I never realized how many Congressmen live in Virginia." 

"Only the rich ones. I'm surprised they haven't kicked up more of a row over the search especially." 

"It's a red herring and they all know it," the President interposed, clearly not missing a thing around here even though he didn't seem to pause in his reading. " _They_ can't be blind to how dismal our chances for success really are. They're just being decent enough not to say so." 

Leo and Josh traded a glance of fresh concern. 

Bartlet sensed that somehow. Or perhaps just the silence tipped him off. He raised his head to confront both men, the ice building inexorably behind his eyes. "You guys can admit it now: the odds Ron quoted earlier that the DSA are still in town were pretty optimistic." 

His tone was cold, his words chilling. He hadn't been fooled by his own bodyguard's initial claim, over thirty endless hours ago, that the police and the Army had successfully thrown a wall around all of DC, and within a bare five minutes to boot. The well-intentioned efforts of the Secret Service and the whole Senior Staff to convince him, to ease his anxiety even under false pretenses, had been to no avail. 

Leo exhaled guiltily. "Sir -" 

"Skip it," their leader ordered. "We had nothing to lose by trying, and we had to take some steps that both the public and the kidnappers could see anyway." He was taking this unfortunate revelation better than even his best friend could have predicted. 

Then, just like that, the frost in his vision transmuted into an open flame. 

"Besides, if they're even in the general vicinity, then these measures should keep them in one place. They'll be afraid to move about, in case someone out there gets a glimpse of their captives. That we can exploit." 

When Josh left the Oval Office, he had to pause and wipe his brow. 

"Josh?" Donna rose from her desk in some concern. 

He swung her way at once, relief plastered all over his face. "Oh, you're back. Thank God." 

She didn't have time to be touched by the sentiment. He headed for the corridor, motioning for her to follow. "Come on. I need to talk." 

"I take it I don't have any say in this," she muttered, but joined him without hesitation. 

"You should apply for a psychiatric license!" Nancy called after her, smiling. 

Donna scoffed. "I wouldn't even need to take the course. I'm an authority." 

The pair hadn't gone more than ten yards when they met CJ traveling in the opposite direction. "Good day, lady and gentleman," she greeted them affably. "Out for your morning constitutional?" 

_Her_ destination was never in doubt. Josh at once stepped into her path, forcing her to halt. 

"Trust me, CJ - you _don't_ want to go in there." 

She weighed his words. "Hard day, huh?" 

"He's got the Black Death beat all hollow this time." 

In total defiance of what sounded like good advice, CJ smiled. "Well, I believe I've got the antidote." Giving his arm a familiar pat that bordered on condescending, she maneuvered around him and continued on her way. 

"So now you're a lion tamer?" Josh laid in a pursuit course, seized by curiosity as to what she knew that he didn't. 

Donna seized _him_ by the elbow, yanking him back onto their original heading. "I think CJ can take care of herself." 

Josh allowed her to drag him along, but not without resistance. "Oh, yeah? He's already decimated three of us - why should _she_ escape unscathed?" 

"Never underestimate the power of a woman in the White House." Donna grinned. "You should know that by now." 

CJ knocked politely, then let herself in... just in time to interrupt the latest Bartlet/McGarry debate on logistics. 

"I'm going to have to address them at _some_ stage!" 

"I'm not disputing that. It's the _when_ that bothers me." 

"The people expect it. I can't act like I'm hiding in here, and I sure can't act like I'm hiding from _them_!" 

"You had more visitors yesterday than you sometimes do in a week. I think that'll get the point across." 

"It's _not_ the same thing. CJ, thank goodness! Help me talk some sense into this guy." 

The Press Secretary would have liked to savor that flash of humor, so rare in their Chief Executive for so long. Which might be the reason why Leo risked pursuing their argument in the first place; he was the best Bartlet judge around by far. However, that humor still did not alleviate the inferno in the President's glare. Besides, she never relished getting roped into moments like this, especially when her professional opinion didn't agree with his. She whipped out her antidote fast. 

"I'm not sure I have that much time to spare, Mr. President." She smirked at Leo, who pretended to look insulted. "Neither do you, in fact. The NSA can't be more than a couple of minutes behind me." 

She suddenly had both men's undivided attention. 

" _Now_ what?" Bartlet all but growled, rising to his feet, the inferno climbing to fever pitch. 

CJ adopted a more businesslike posture. "I've been handed a whisper from an international correspondent. The so-called diplomatic advances from Cuba to the Netherlands Antilles appear to have ceased." 

They stared at her. She smiled in satisfaction at delivering such a startling bulletin. 

"Just like that?" Bartlet sounded amazed that it could have been so simple in the end. 

"CJ, do you trust this source?" Leo demanded, of like mind. 

"As well as I trust any other reporter," she admitted. "At least he's trusted in turn by one of our media partners on the DSA smokescreen thing, which boosts his credibility somewhat in my eyes. Anyway, the Council is confirming it now." 

Silence descended upon this core of American government. It would seem that what could have developed into a serious international situation had been successfully averted. Without bloodshed. 

Leo recovered first. "Congratulations, Mr. President." 

"Likewise, sir," CJ added, now smiling broadly. 

The Chief of Staff couldn't get over their good fortune. "Whoa. This example should frighten a few other notoriously-volatile nations into at least _some_ prudence as well." 

"Wouldn't surprise me if it did," CJ agreed. 

What _did_ surprise her was their leader's rather more subdued reaction. He didn't even crack a grin at a very delicate job very well done - and done solely by himself. 

"Well," he said at last, "that solves _that_ problem. It might've been a fine little bonfire in our backyard; now it's just a footnote in the world news section." His voice stayed hard, not enthused at all. 

Leo's brows descended. "Sir? Is something wrong?" 

CJ peered closer as well. 

Bartlet shook his head. "Not really." He glanced around his office, somehow looking madder than ever. "I guess I'm almost _disappointed_ that Castro caved so easily. I'd have really liked an excuse to cut loose some." 

CJ edged backwards half a step, her face tightening. To have a person with such aggressive desires in command of _the_ superpower in the world... 

Leo drew a strained breath, no doubt thinking the very same thing. 

The President didn't appear to notice either of them. His next words, however, eased their mutual concern a bit. "Not so much by bombing someone, but by having a good pitched fight - with my own hands." He stared down at those hands, which had closed into fists. 

Neither could really blame him. 

CJ slipped out the first polite chance she got, hoping that the full impact of diffusing the Cuban issue would soon sink in and bring her leader some small measure of peace. 

She hurried down the hall... 

...and Ron Butterfield hurried up from its other end. 

Bartlet moved slowly to the front of his desk, and planted both hands on its leading edge. His breathing hitched, as though in sudden, unanticipated discomfort. His eyes rose to the window, seeking guidance from the bright morning sun. 

He looked terribly lonely, even with other people in the room... lonely and afraid and vulnerable. 

His voice barely formed sound, yet in this sheer silence each word seemed to echo. 

"Something's happening." His tone contained not one shred of doubt. "I can tell." 

_But WHAT?_

He listened, hard, for something that shouldn't be audible at all... 

"Father Almighty, what am I to do? _I can't do anything..."_

Neither of his companions so much as shifted. 

Someone knocked on the far door, then opened it to enter. 

Leo turned to see - and froze solid. Charlie, all but invisible on the sidelines until now, leaped to his feet. 

Their boss failed to react. Clearly he was so lost in his spiraling thoughts that he hadn't heard a thing behind him. 

"Mr. President." 

That title sliced through the thick air like a knife. He stiffened at once - solidifying in what could only be an all-consuming terror. His tenuous link to another snapped. 

None of them could see his face, but all could imagine the compressed lips and the wide eyes... as well as the harrowing thoughts behind them. 

Ron. News. 

This was _just like_ his dream. 

Would he now hear, for the second time, as though the _first_ time had preordained everything, that Abbey...? 

The head of White House security had exercised care to keep his voice calm, to project no great urgency or emotion that might be misinterpreted. Now he waited. 

Finally, Bartlet found the fortitude to straighten, and revolve. 

His expression was granite. 

Leo tried to hide his own near-panic as well. Charlie's eyes were enormous. 

By contrast, Ron gave the merest smile. 

"Got the signal, sir." 


	20. Other Half of My Soul, The 20

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 20 ~ 

"What in God's name is taking so long!" 

The Secret Service maintained its principle command post deep in the basement of the West Wing. That large, well-shielded chamber contained all of the electronic monitoring equipment needed to coordinate White House security, and the safety of the First Family. 

It could _not_ contain the fury and frenzy of a President on the very edge. 

Bartlet paced nonstop, one slow stride after another, back and forth along the bare ten feet or so of clear space he could find in this crowded room. He held himself so tight, so tense, that everyone around him was reminded of a race car with one foot on the brake and one flat on the gas, or of a rocket ship just one second from ignition: _straining_ , straining to blast forward at maximum velocity. 

Leo and Charlie pressed themselves to the back wall, trying to give their leader as much room as possible, trying to keep out of his way - especially in case he _did_ blow. 

Colleen Reilly was also present, but not working at the computer banks. Once the location locked down, she would have an immediate and critical role to play. 

Ron didn't spare any of them a glance, leaning over the technicians' shoulders, listening to the constant tap of keys and beep of readouts, digesting what all of the different screens had to say. "Only one brief pulse is coming through at a time, sir, and the intervals are still too long for the satellite to home in." 

"A mechanical failure?" The President sounded all too ready to kill someone right now. If this miracle of modern science failed to work just when his wife was relying on it... 

Amazingly, Ron did not show any fear. Almost every other person present _did_. 

"No, sir. Everything is functioning perfectly. This technology may be new, but the signal was detected exactly the way we calculated it would be. I believe the First Lady is just being very careful. Remember, the DSA have at least one electronic sensor device. Mrs. Bartlet knows that she can't afford to trigger it, so she must be spacing single transmissions." 

"Could something else be preventing her?" 

"Unlikely, sir." Ron moved from display to display like an overseer. "The pulses are very strong and clear; she can't be that far away or that far underground." 

"How about some _one_?" Bartlet's voice betrayed the faintest tremor this time. 

Ron must have anticipated _that_ question. "Even less likely, sir. If this were a decoy, the kidnappers would simply leave the signal on; they'd have no reason to go to the trouble or be so subtle. We'll take that possibility into account, of course, but right now it looks genuine. All we need is just a little more time." 

"And _then_ what?" 

"Well, sir, that depends upon the topography of the actual location. We'll look the place over first, of course. We have to examine every last angle before we even contemplate a forceful retrieval. Above all, the DSA must not be alerted in advance. A standoff would only be a disaster." 

The President turned an unhealthy crimson. "You're telling _me_ that!" 

Leo leaned closer, his voice low and soothing. "Take it easy. She's alive and she's doing exactly what she's supposed to do. They'll find her in another -" 

Bartlet rounded sharply on his best friend. "I know she's alive! With every beat of my pulse, I can _feel_ it!" 

Nobody hinted at disbelief. No matter how superstitious it might sound, the bond between the First Couple seemed positively uncanny at times. 

They all knew that _he_ believed it... and they all wanted to believe right with him. 

Then this icy blast of anger shivered into searing agony. "I also know that she's _hurt_! Don't ask me how, but I am _not_ imagining this. I can feel her pain right through my bones. And I'm stuck here, unable to help her!" 

Nobody challenged him on that prescience, either. Their own apprehension climbed proportionately. 

"So don't patronize me right now, Leo. I've had just about all I can take of -" 

" _Triangulation!"_ one of the seated operatives shouted in decidedly un-Service-like delight, electrifying everyone in the room. 

" _WHERE_?" the President almost roared. 

"Thirty-Fourth Street. Right near the Observatory Circle." 

Leo's jaw dropped. "That's practically next door to the Vice-Presidential Mansion." 

Every head rotated. No - _he_ couldn't be involved - 

"Don't jump to conclusions," Ron instructed the room at large. "Keep monitoring. Send in the recon team. Broad daylight, max discretion. Radio the uniforms to clear the area - _subtly_. Alert Halogen detail. If he's not already secure in Clover Leaf, don't take him there. And get the strike force in my office." 

He spun around and headed out the door in a rush. Colleen had already preceded him. 

A hand clamped onto his wrist like an iron manacle, yanking him to a sharp halt just past the threshold. 

The firestorm in Bartlet's eyes would not accept a refusal. "I'm going with you." 

Ron didn't even entertain the idea. "No, sir, you're _not_." 

The firestorm intensified to near-critical mass. "As your Commander-in-Chief, I'm giving you a direct order. There's no way I'm not going to be there." 

The senior agent made no effort to break free from that solid grip, but he didn't back down one inch. "And as the man responsible for my Commander-in-Chief's safety, there's no way I'm taking you there." 

The firestorm became a solar flare. " _The hell_ with my safety! This is my _wife_ we're talking so calmly about!" 

The two of them stood toe to toe in the basement hall, oblivious to all else. They didn't see Colleen cautiously herd Leo, Charlie and everyone else a few extra steps away. No one resisted her; the threat of volcanic eruption was escalating at a fearful rate. 

Ron kept his volume low, yet unyielding. "I _do_ understand that, sir. But I can't accommodate my natural sympathy for you, or even my personal liking for you. So you don't care about your own safety? What about _hers_?" He sounded less professional and more empathic than an agent ever should be. "Taking you along would also divide my forces. The assault team must work flawlessly together as a single unit. I'd have to bring in at least four more agents just to protect you, and every additional man would reduce Mrs. Bartlet's chances by as much as twenty percent. You do the math." 

In the sudden quiet after such a harsh tone and a harsher fact, the President did. That flare subsided just a bit. The iron grip released its hold. 

Ron pressed his advantage. "There's also the chance that this is a decoy, a trap aimed specifically at _you_ , sir. Maybe the kidnappers discovered the ring and now want to lure their _real_ enemy into the open." 

That flare regained its full nova strength, eclipsing everything else. "Do you think that risk matters to me now? I'll take it and gladly!" 

"Well, sir, I'm not going to let you take it. We have to think of the leadership of the country, too. You're just too important -" 

Right then, the fission reactor that was Josiah Bartlet detonated into a core meltdown. With a silent snarl of the most heartfelt worry and frustration and rage, he reared back and hurled a sizzling fist straight for Ron's face. 

The security coordinator almost didn't react in time. Certainly, even in this knife-edge moment of terrible decision, he never would have expected to be under attack by his own Chief Executive. Then well-trained reflexes kicked in: he shifted fast to his right, caught the pile-driver of a blow by both hands around the wrist, stopping it short, and lunged forward in turn, twisting at the same time to force the extended arm across his assailant's chest like a barricade. In the very next instant the President of the United States had been shoved against the opposite wall and pinned there. _Hard._

Everyone - including the two combatants - froze. 

They stared into each other's face, mere inches apart. Bartlet radiated sheer fury - fury that he was being kept from his wife now that they knew where she was, and fury that his best physical resistance had been countered with such ease. Ron, by contrast, shifted from the instinctive chilling efficiency of the Secret Service, ready to _kill_ in defense of their protectees, to shock at what his conditioned instincts had almost done to his protectee. 

Humbly, he let go and stepped back. 

No one else so much as breathed. 

During this next heartbeat the disheveled President, his own respirations coming fast, looked more than willing to try again, to do anything that had the remotest chance of getting him to his wife _now_. 

Leo made to step forward - whether to calm his friend and leader, to restrain him, or to back him up, no one could be sure. Colleen didn't ask; she just placed her hand on his chest and kept him out of this. They didn't need to compound things even further. 

Ron inhaled slowly. "All right, Mr. President. You want to take your anger out on me? Go ahead. That would be better than you compromising the rescue operation." He spread his arms, leaving himself wide open to a fresh attack. 

Jed Bartlet fought almost all of his battles with words and policy. Even so, he was sturdily-built and fueled by a hurricane of emotion. A blow from him in this state could hurt a lot, could dole out serious punishment. 

Several nerve-racking seconds ticked past as he considered such a selfless offer. Everyone waited, unable to move, fully expecting him to take it. 

"Those bastards are threatening my wife," he grated at last. "I am going to go there in person and tear their _lungs_ out!" The light in his vision now could only be described as murderous. His hands were claws - ready to do the same to anyone who barred his way. 

Everyone else inched back without being told. This killer rage was totally out of character for the leader they all knew. 

Ron could not have doubted that one more word from him might easily ignite another blaze of executive violence - a blaze that he had indicated he would not resist. Nonetheless, he adhered to his duty and tried to impose logic upon passion. "Sir, that is not how we do things. Not the Service, not the government, not the people... and not you. _Justice_ , Mr. President. Not revenge. Otherwise we're no different from them." 

Somehow, this earnest tone and this vital truth together finally penetrated the chaos of Bartlet's mind. He trembled, still on the absolute verge of letting go. Many witnessing this trembled as well, deathly afraid of the biggest explosion yet... 

Then he sighed, releasing the worst of that horrid pressure. In unison, everyone else exhaled as well. 

The needle hadn't dropped _that_ far below the red zone just yet. "By now she's gone through every kind of hell you can name. What's your procedure for traumatized victims, Ron? You make sure someone they know is right there. A comfort, a grounding factor. _I want to be there for her_. She'll _need_ me!" 

Ron did not move, either to relax at the slight decrease in tension or to ease his official stance. "Agent Reilly will be there, sir. So will other agents the First Lady knows. We do understand." 

"Oh, _right_ , as if -" 

"I _know_ it's not the same, sir! But these are trained operatives. You _aren't_ , and there's no time to educate you." As though they would even consider putting their Head of State through full security training. 

"All of you are running a huge risk going after her. Your leader, the leader of this nation, should be no less willing to do the same. It's my responsibility to share that risk!" 

"No, sir, it's not. No one's doubting your leadership or your courage. You don't need to prove a thing. The fact is, you're the one person we can't do without." Ron did not let up just because he seemed to be winning so far. "And your wife can't do without you, either. We have to keep you safe for her sake as much as your own. Trust in us, sir. We're going to find her and bring her home to you." 

The reactor in those eyes still burned, yet at a far safer level now, as though running low on fuel. Bartlet's voice leveled out, under rein again. Control came easier now... because hope came harder? "I got her into this. I want more than _anything_ to get her out." 

It was a romantic image, the husband riding forth to save his wife personally... though an impractical one. But understandable. 

Ron lowered his hands, a gesture of submission to the rules that he was compelled to enforce. "You _have_ to leave this to us, sir. You can't possibly do any good by coming along, and you can do a whole lot of harm." 

Another image that cannoned through a lot of minds right now was of the President arriving on the scene... to find his wife's body, left where it had fallen. 

For one second Bartlet actually swayed in place, no doubt envisioning the very same thing in all its horror. His eyes squeezed shut, trying to block out that entire idea. 

Silence. Even the monitors just inside the nearby door didn't dare beep. 

"How long have _you_ been married, Ron?" 

An agent is not supposed to be flustered by anything, no matter how unexpected. He barely paused. "Nine and a half years, sir." 

"Well, Abbey and I have been together for more than _half our lives_!" 

Silence. There was just nothing to say. 

"I had a dream this morning." The President's voice dropped to a tortured whisper. "You tried to get her out - but..." 

Leo winced. So did Charlie. So did Reilly. 

So did Ron. For once, the hard shell of his unforgiving job had been cracked, by compassion. 

"Ron, I can't go through that again!" 

The anguish in those words cut every other heart to the quick. 

Ron drew himself up, swearing a solemn vow. "You won't, sir. Every single one of us will give our lives before we let that happen." 

Their elected leader looked aside, towards something only he could see. 

"So would I." 

* * *

Like a funeral procession, three men slowly returned to the Oval Office. 

Like visitors to the wake, three men and a woman awaited them. 

Upon seeing them, Bartlet stopped. Behind him, Leo and Charlie did as well. 

Josh, Toby, CJ and Sam were all lined up in the middle of the room, waiting silently for their leader to return. 

"All right, what is it this time?" The President's tone seemed unnaturally quiet, even dull - as though his last-ditch effort had been shipwrecked and he just didn't have the energy to deal with anything else. 

The Deputy Chief of Staff accepted his task as unofficial spokesperson. "No business, sir. We... were just informed of the news." 

A Secret Service rescue operation would never be bandied about the halls of the White House or anywhere else. The only way these four could have found out was if a member of the Service itself had informed them. 

Bartlet's head lifted a notch. The man most concerned for his safety, the man he'd almost physically injured, the man who had offered to let himself be injured if it would help, had still been forced to stand by procedure and prudence, and deny his leader's dearest request. But procedure and prudence had not prevented Ron from passing the word to certain other totally reliable individuals - the President's closest colleagues. 

And these colleagues had immediately dropped everything and flocked here, so that they could share this nightmare vigil. To be with him, through the best and the _worst_. 

What words would best apply here? Solidarity, for sure. Loyalty, of course. Friendship - without doubt. 

Bartlet glanced at each of them. He didn't smile... but even through the countless layers of torment in his vision, they could read the deep gratitude within. 

Behind him, Leo nodded his own pride that he and his best friend had such terrific people to stand with them. 

His comment was intended for them all, both an elaboration on what they already knew and a shot of desperately-needed hope - however slim. "Against all odds, the roadblocks and the search pulled it off: they kept the kidnappers in town. The signal's come through; the Service now knows where they are. So we just have to wait." 

Everyone shared the same sequence of thought: relief that the First Lady was alive, fear that a retrieval operation would increase her risk even more... and anxiety, knowing that none of them could do anything to help - not _really_. 

In silence, they parted before the advance of their President. No one had to say a thing. His features were slack, his energy gone, the fire in his eyes almost out. 

Slowly, he moved to his desk; slowly, he sat down in that leather throne. A veritable king - without his queen. 

The six edged closer, forming a protective ring before that desk. Standing together no matter _what_ might transpire, even as they had done when the order of the day have been mere political finagling, so very long ago. Josh didn't fidget or shuffle the way he almost always did, and looked older than his actual years. Sam wore such a stricken expression that he looked much _younger_ , more like a child in need of reassurance that all would be well. Toby's gaze kept dropping, as though he didn't want to look upon his leader in defeat. CJ's mouth kept twitching, as she fought back the bitter tears of direct experience. 

Leo stood stiffly at the desk's right corner, like a soldier on guard, old and wise and worn with long service. Charlie mirrored that pose to the left, feeling very much a part of this, young and bright and embodying the potential of the future. 

They had, of course, known all along that Bartlet was afraid for his wife. But until now, that terror had not _really_ shown. Always before he had fought it like a physical antagonist, the way a battleship plows through massive ocean swells, pushed to his limits yet always forging ahead, never faltering no matter how fierce the storm. For her sake. 

Now, at last, they could all see just _how_ scared he was. The fight had been taken away from him. There was simply nothing more he could do, nothing else he could fight _with_. Now he clung to the very last chance, the single piece of wood still afloat, mercilessly battered by the waves, all alone in that dark and heaving sea... and resigned himself to live or die. To await an outcome he couldn't bear to face. 

He placed both hands on the blotter and stared down at them, struggling for the last shreds of control. 

"Call Aidan Mayes." 


	21. Other Half of My Soul, The 21

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 21 ~ 

"God, the waiting is absolutely the worst." 

The First Lady leaned against the windowsill, even though with its wooden planks and its concealing outside curtain she really couldn't see anything. There was just something magnetic about that thin slice of freedom within view, no matter how obscure or how far beyond her reach. Perhaps it explained why so many jail prisoners spent countless hours clinging to the bars of their windows, or went raving mad when denied any windows at all. 

Lilli sat on one of the beds, propped up against the headboard, her head back and her eyes closed. She was hardly asleep, though; the tight-stretched atmosphere precluded that. "Funny how, in all those nice dramatic movies, no one mentions the sheer boredom." 

The food tray still rested on the other bed. Both women had nibbled a bit, as much out of boredom as from natural hunger after a day and a half of imposed sleep, but their general situation acted like a new miracle cure for appetite. Still, Abbey had made it clear that, for the sake of their health, they had to recover from their forced hibernation. 

"And it's not like we've actually been awake for all that much of it." Abbey sighed. "If only we knew what was happening out there. I have _never_ been so cut off from the news in my life! It feels like the whole world is just marching on without us." 

Nothing could be further from the truth, of course. Right now a huge chunk of the world figuratively and literally revolved around them both. 

Questions plagued her without respite. Had the kidnappers submitted their demands yet? If not, _why_ not? Or had the White House simply not released those demands? That would be prudent, but very hard to contain for long. These self-proclaimed patriots had to be watching the news as well. 

What was Jed doing right now? Had he responded publicly to the ultimatum for his resignation? What did the average citizen think about this, or even know about it? 

Where were the girls? Liz, Ellie, Zoey... How were they bearing up, trapped in the center of this political tug-of-war? And what about Annie, so young to be exposed to this blackest side of human nature? 

Had Jed thought to call Abbey's parents? If not, she'd bet big money they called _him_. They had to be going stir-crazy themselves - and taking it out on their not-so-powerful-after-all son-in-law, no doubt... 

What plans had been instigated by the Secret Service while they waited for her signal? Certainly they'd have called in the marines, and intensified security everywhere they could reach. Imagine the roadblocks, the station shutdowns... She detested the thought of common citizens, innocent bystanders, being inconvenienced just because she happened to live at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. 

Because, thirty-four years ago, she married a future economics professor... future Nobel Prize winner... future Congressman... future Governor... future _President_. 

Like anyone could have predicted such a roller coaster ride. 

Abbey just could not get over the paradox of this entire situation. These domestic terrorists, in the honest belief that they were acting for the betterment of the nation, wanted to force their duly elected leader to resign by threatening his wife - who herself had wanted him to forget about re-election as well. 

How was he bearing up in all of this? How _could_ he be bearing it at all? 

No matter how hard she resisted, her brain stubbornly, miserably, insisted on returning to this horrid subject, over and over again... 

If their joint nightmare resulted in harm to him, if he broke under the worry and the pain - then Abbey knew she would never forgive the perpetrators. The concept of him collapsing was horridly vivid and horribly possible. Her own survival and retrieval would mean nothing to her if he were not there to welcome her home. 

For years she had lived with the bitter knowledge that he could all too easily predecease her, a fact increased tenfold by the dangers of the Presidency. But still... 

Dear Lord, not _now_! 

Naturally, she did not want to die in such a senseless manner herself. She hated the very idea of being used as an item of barter. Her highest incentive of all, though, was purely for his sake. This had nothing to do with ego: she knew that her death would crush him. 

All right, it was time she stopped hiding from the double-edged truth: _his_ death would crush _her. Physical_ health had nothing to do with it. 

As for her children, whom she loved so very dearly as well... at least they were safe. But if they lost one of their parents - or, God forbid, _both_ \- 

She kept telling herself that she was a very valuable prisoner, so long as she remained alive and in good shape. Therefore, she was not in deadly danger. Yet. 

That fact needed constant repetition to stave off the lurking fear. Jed would not, _could_ not give in to her captors' terms. If he failed to find her before these maniacs realized that... 

Then there was her even greater fear for Lilli. Punch and Judy had no real need for _two_ prisoners, especially when the second possessed so little concrete worth in their eyes. What if they finally decided to lighten the load? 

The considerable influence commanded by the First Lady of the United States did not compare well to an automatic pistol. 

Lilli couldn't help but share similar grim thoughts. She refused to admit it, though. Instead, she concentrated upon shoring up her nerve and preparing herself for whatever it might take to protect her boss. Her attitude was one of fatalism, a firm determination to be ready and to act, no matter the cost. She didn't _want_ to die... most especially since that would then leave Abbey alone. However, she would give her life rather than let anything happen to the First Lady... who also happened to be her personal friend. 

Abbey would rather die herself than watch her Chief of Staff - and her friend - die for _any_ reason. And yet, despite that vaunted American stance of equality for all people, she couldn't escape the glaring truth that her own death would have far more impact on the world at large. 

Every hour, every additional minute counted down to the critical instant when either their rescuers arrived in a blaze of gunfire, or else their captors reached the inevitable conclusion that this plan wasn't going to work after all. Whichever way things went, that instant would define the future of many lives in its far-too-brief duration. 

Abbey kept rubbing her rings, one after another. If the wrong equipment detected her signal, it shouldn't be linked to her since she performed this simple action so often. However, she still didn't dare lock the transponder on for good. She activated it only intermittently... just a bit longer each time. 

Had the Secret Service even picked up her SOS yet? This was new technology, after all. They certainly hadn't traced it, or else they'd be smashing in the downstairs entrance right now. 

Had their enemies noticed this blip as well? Were _they_ trying to trace it? 

She had to get her mind off that track before the panic engulfed her. 

Gathering her resolution, she left the window and came to Lilli's bed. Lilli watched intently as her boss settled herself on the edge. 

"I think it'd be a good idea of we talked about something." Abbey's voice was quiet and measured, underscoring her seriousness. 

Her Chief of Staff sat up straighter. 

"You haven't been through the Secret Service training exercises. I'm going to share some details of what they've drilled into me." 

Unless the abductors had a very sensitive microphone very close by, they wouldn't pick up much of this. That fact had its down side; they might assume the worst and decide to interrupt. Still, they could hardly _not_ expect their captives to plot a bit, especially as time wore on. Abbey was gambling that they felt too self-confident and sure of their superior position to worry much... unless this illusion of subterfuge stretched out too long. 

Then too, it actually might help the prisoners if they _were_ overheard, at certain moments. Some of what she had to say would appeal to any captor. 

"Our first order of business is survival. People are out there looking for us. It's our job to make sure there's something for them to find." 

She didn't add that it was also her job to actively help their rescuers find them. Lilli didn't mention it, either. The consequences of anything like _that_ being overheard were terrifying. 

Abbey nodded at the unspoken corollary, then went on. "So. We don't do anything to get these guys mad at us. We're going to need our strength, which means hunger striking is out. And we're also going to need our wits about us. If we can gather information in the process, well and good. If we can leave clues behind, we will - so long as it doesn't add to our own risk. We offer no resistance if we can possibly help it." 

"Uh... but what if we _can't_ help it?" Lilli almost whispered, more than a little uneasily. "And how will we know when?" 

Abbey's brows drew down into a determined line. "We'll know." 

The iron conviction in her tone left no doubt that, when and _if_ such a moment roared upon them, they would be ready. They'd _have_ to be: on that one moment would hang their lives. 

In the next silence, the First Lady fiddled briefly with the strap of her right shoe. Due to her petite height, she almost always wore very high heels, and not just for vanity: wherever she went these days, she had to be seen. She'd long since made three-inch stilettos part of her image. Her accompanying female staffers, all of whom were taller, usually wore as flat a shoe as possible, to avoid towering over their vertically-challenged boss in the public eye. 

All this to say that, right now, Abbey had in her possession a formidable weapon her captors had overlooked. As a matter of fact, she had two. 

Lilli noticed that fidgeting, and judging by her slight wince she'd grasped the same brutal concept. Neither of them was trained in hand-to-hand combat, or had ever engaged in a physical brawl before, and both possessed limited body strength... but it didn't require a weight-lifter's muscle or a surgeon's skill to know how to incapacitate or even kill someone with a leather-bound steel spike like that. Hold it by the toe, and swing for the face. 

If they were driven to really fight, if they took their captors sufficiently by surprise, and if they could find the inner resolve to injure another person... 

"Remember this: sooner or later, they will find us. Believe it. _Believe_ that we'll come through okay, and we will. Have faith in the Secret Service, the military, the common citizens out there reading about us, and whatever divine presence you think there is." 

Lilli pondered this. "No atheists in foxholes, huh?" 

Abbey smirked, briefly yet visibly. "Well, I wouldn't have put it _quite_ that way..." 

They shared the subsequent quiet, experiencing the full-scale war between despair and hope, not letting the scales in their hearts tip the wrong way. 

"Something else." This time Abbey's vision turned inward. "You remember when CJ Cregg went missing last year, just before Christmas?" 

Lilli nodded. It had been a short yet compelling media sensation: the President going live just after lunch to announce the abduction of his Press Secretary, an unconfirmed rumor of her body being found later that same afternoon, and then the official report that she'd been rescued that evening. Of course, the entire White House had known for two full days prior that its most publicly seen staffer wasn't just ill and housebound. 

This occasion surpassed that chaos by far; there would have been no attempt to conceal the disappearance of one of the White House's _residents_. Besides, a kidnapped employee couldn't possibly cause the same constitutional ripples as the First Lady herself. 

Abbey had something slightly different in mind. "Forget the political angle. That's not something you and I should bother about right now." Her voice softened. "CJ told me all about her experience. The fear, the anger, the helplessness and despair. It wasn't pleasant to hear, but it helped her to talk about it. And..." She shifted a bit in place. "It has helped me to feel a bit more prepared for whatever _we_ may face. I still ache to think of what she endured - yet at the same time I'm grateful for what I learned. Even though our situation isn't as bad as hers was, that knowledge just might help us now." 

Lilli swallowed, her own fear again on the rise. 

Abbey realized this at once. "Don't get me wrong. CJ's kidnapper was insane. If anything, these characters are a little _too_ sane - for the most part. But at least they shouldn't act unless they're provoked, and they should be more predictable by the experts." 

Another pause fell. This time Lilli was the one to break it. 

"Well, _I'm_ grateful that I have an expert along." She grinned at her boss' quick smile. "So, what else do you think is going on out there?" 

Abbey considered, brushing her hair back thoughtfully. "You mean, aside from a nationwide frenzy? The White House would have been locked down at once, but they can't maintain that for days at a time. Still, the heightened security must be nerve-racking. For sure they closed the closest airports and other terminals, not that anyone would be likely to take that predictable route with hostages. They probably tried to close off the roads around DC as well - with an even lower chance of success. There are just too many. Besides, we could be halfway across the country by now." She sighed dispiritedly. "Meanwhile, the Secret Service will be working with the police, the military, every National Guard east of the Mississippi, and for sure the FBI." 

Lilli gave a soft whistle, almost impressed with their abductors' daring. "Boy, these turkeys have managed to stack the whole deck against them." 

Abbey found it rather less amusing. "Which means that it's a race - to see who makes the first move... or mistake." 

Best to avoid those images as well. "Meanwhile, the press must be having a field day on the political fallout alone." 

Lilli had intended that as a light-hearted toss-off, but it didn't wash. Not only were the potential repercussions of both national and international import, but they would have a severe personal impact on the man trapped in the heart of all this. 

Abbey's gaze drifted away, into a dimension normally beyond human sight. "I can only hope that there's enough political tension and strife to keep them distracted from... other things." 

Things like an anxiety-ridden President on the knife-edge of collapse... 

Her next words were not intended for another's ears. "Dear heavens, the stress he's got to be under..." 

It wasn't just his physical health, either - it was his _mental_ health that she so deeply feared for as well. The human brain can be astonishingly resilient in dealing with bodily pain... and terribly fragile when under psychological assault. If she doubted for one second how he had to be agonizing over her, she needed only ask herself how _she_ would feel if their situations were reversed. 

The horror of Jed dying... or declining... seized her by the throat. _And she wouldn't be there for him!_ To treat him, to fight his condition with everything she had, or at the very least to make sure he didn't go through that hell without her! 

For months now they'd been sparring, entrenched in their individual sense of rightness and refusing to give ground. That didn't change the indelible fact that neither of them was complete without the other. 

And now, after all those petty squabbles, she might never see him again. Ever. 

There was a real satiric parallel here. Both the kidnappers _and_ the MS were doing their level best to destroy him. Both wanted him to give up. Constitutional hard-lining aside, if he backed down, he would almost certainly live longer. As would she. Therefore, so would _they_. 

But if Jed gave up - he would no longer be _Jed_. 

He was who he was: the man she loved with all her heart. 

Yet how could he _not_ give up... and still survive? 

The subsequent thought found voice without any conscious decision on her part. "I'm convinced that if anything happened to him, I'd _know_. It's as if our souls are... physically bound together. I've got this gut feeling that he's all right - at least, for the moment." She sighed. "So long as I don't give up, if I just hold on tight to that lifeline... perhaps some kind of spiritual message will reach him. Somehow." 

Then Abbey came back to herself, blushing a bit, remembering that she was not alone. "That must've sounded rather silly." 

Lilli smiled gently. " _Not at all_." 

"Humph. It probably also sounds selfish." 

She reached over to touch her boss' hand, to offer whatever comfort could be had. "Hey... I think I _know_ how you feel." 

Abbey placed her other hand on top. "Thanks. Unfortunately, I know you do." 

"Misery loves company, right?" Then her Chief of Staff settled into a more supportive mode. "Now don't you worry. The President is too stubborn to let anyone tell him what to do - except for you, of course. I think I'm pretty safe at guaranteeing that he won't go down under this. He won't abandon you for any price, and he won't give these freedom fighter wannabes the satisfaction of seeing him weaken." 

Abbey couldn't help it this time; she chuckled. 

The door latch clicked. 

Both women went stone-still. At the angle she'd chosen to seat herself on the bed, Abbey was facing in almost the exact opposite direction. Immediately her spine started to crawl, conscious of that abhorrent presence so close. However, she steadfastly refused to turn, or to scramble for balance the moment their captives put in an appearance, as though she had something to hide. Instead, she watched Lilli like a hawk. 

For her part, Lilli already faced the door, so her expression provided the First Lady with a lot of clues. She fought down the worst, not wanting to look weak herself, but Abbey was near enough both in distance and in friendship to read the signs. 

Some anger, surging terror... and renewed apprehension. 

"I'm sorry - are we interrupting something?" their head jailer inquired with mock courtesy. 

Abbey drew a slow breath, anchored her resolve, and finally pivoted in place. 

Judy seemed just as confident as before, arms crossed in an authoritative manner, too contemptuous of anything her prisoners might do to worry about how that stance encumbered her hands and made drawing her huge pistol more difficult. 

Punch had _his_ pistol leveled, as though just aching to use it. 

The primal fear of staring down the bore of a gun is almost impossible to understand until you've done it yourself. The dark muzzle cavity loomed as large as a black hole in space, and no less inescapable. The trigger looked as though a mere exhalation would apply too much pressure for it to bear. A long heartbeat crept past where Abbey couldn't focus on anything else but the hideous damage to living tissue - _her_ tissue - which that weapon might inflict at any instant, and the fact that this might be the very last thing she ever saw... 

With all her strength, she tore her eyes away from it, firmed her expression, and concentrated on the ringleader. 

She ignored the question, uninterested in some depraved game of who could deliver the more cutting insults. "To what do we owe this honor?" 

Judy shrugged. Slowly, playing to the suspense, she reached into her suit jacket pockets with both hands... and produced two appallingly familiar items: a small rubber-capped glass vial, and a syringe. 

"It's moving day again." 

Lilli just about sprang off the bed, eyes huge. Abbey used the mattress's sudden motion to fuel her own less-abrupt rise; for one heartbeat she wasn't sure her legs would hold her. She clamped frantic control upon her nerves. 

_One:_ the last time they were subjected to that sedative, they'd suffered several injections each, they'd been out for over a day, and they'd felt pretty ill when it finally wore off. Neither wanted to endure that discomfort again, never mind what repeated, fluctuating dosages of an unknown chemical might do to their long-term physical health. 

_Two:_ while unconscious, they would again be helpless to defend themselves or even know what was happening around them. Standing here, knowing that horror was about to occur, gave new definition to "panic." 

_Three:_ the intermittent ring signal had been coming from this location for over an hour; the Secret Service had to home in on it soon. If they shifted locales now, the entire tracing process would need to begin all over again, with God only knew how much additional delay _and_ stress, until Abbey eventually woke up again - unless she locked the device on "send," which she didn't dare. Not only might their captors then detect it, but the very worst time for an attempted rescue would be while in transit. 

How much longer _could_ she hope to transmit without giving everything away? One more day? Half that? 

Lilli's thoughts complimented hers exactly. She shot a quick glance at those deceptively fashionable shoes. Would they be forced to fight after all? 

Abbey caught that glance and cast about for a way to divert her friend and her foes together. Scrambling for her spikes right now would be suicidal. 

" _Again_ , you say?" 

Judy frowned - and then relaxed. "Oh, right; you slept through the first one." That confirmed the need for all those doses before: their captors had made sure they didn't come to during the second journey. "We know who's after us, and how to keep ahead of them. They're expecting us to cower in one place, so that they can hem us in. Instead, we're going to set up a new shop in a spot they've already checked. That's the _last_ place anyone will look for us now!" 

Abbey's heart leaped. If the full strength of the search grid was pressing that closely, then they almost had to be within hailing distance of DC itself! Also, if the first layover had been comparable at all to this one in length, then they simply hadn't been on the road much. Most of that time would have been spent indoors. 

And if the third hideout lay back inside the grid, then they'd be heading closer to _home_! 

Unfortunately, this woman's reasoning made sense. Even with the Army, the Navy, the Air Force and the police all working together, they couldn't check every single vehicle on the streets of Washington. These domestic terrors were sharp enough and brazen enough to pull it off. 

Judy calmly removed the needle's plastic guard and proceeded to fill the syringe; with disturbing ease, from at least a few past occasions of practice. _On them_. 

"So, girls, time to roll up your sleeves." As though this were a voluntary blood donation. 

That medical equipment glinted in the room's single light overhead, achieving a deadly image that neither prisoner had seen before. Even Abbey, who regularly prescribed shots and most often administered them herself - including to her husband, whose health depended heavily on her precision - couldn't fight down a shiver. Forget the hospital dramas and murder mysteries: no sane individual enjoys being on the receiving end of any sharp object. Plus, an improperly-handled injection could do considerable damage. Then there was the little matter of the substance used: too much of even the most benign drug could be lethal. She'd already been subjected to enough of it so far. She had absolutely no desire to trust her life to this pair of deluded patriots and medical amateurs. 

She didn't attempt to talk them out of moving; that would immediately raise suspicions about why she'd want to stay in these poor quarters. But just maybe she could barter for some leeway over the drug trade at least... 

The First Lady released a sigh that managed to sound more irritated than afraid. "I really don't want to go through this again. My stomach's still upset." 

Mentally, she ordered Lilli to say nothing. This would be a very delicate verbal balancing act indeed, where one word too many could blow everything out of the water. Best to keep it between just two people. The two principles. The two best arguers. 

"Aw, it'll pass. We have the right to protect ourselves, after all." From her tone, Judy actually believed that outrageous statement. She re-pocketed the vial and held the needle ready. Beside her, Punch didn't move, his gun still aimed and steady. 

Abbey tightened the grip on her own voice, trying to project only frustration at such an exclusive attitude. "Oh, sure; you do and we _don't_." She scrounged for an argument that just might make sense in this company. "You think we'd be so foolish as to try something in the closed confines of a moving vehicle?" 

Judy raised a mocking eyebrow. "You think we'd be so foolish as to trust you?" 

Abbey delivered her coldest glare. "I'm flattered that my word means so much around here." Of course they wouldn't take her husband's word, but she was coolly and desperately playing every card she had left. Anything to keep that needle away. 

"A politician's wife? Right." Judy started to approach. 

One last throw. "Even if no one recognizes me -" few indeed would recognize Lilli, despite the media sensation that had to be raging just outside "- you'll have a hard time explaining two women who are sleeping through the worst downtown traffic." 

Damn - despite all her care, Abbey had slipped: implying that she'd guessed they were still in DC, or at least a large city. She masked her urgent mental regrouping, and braced for potential backlash... 

If Judy noticed, she didn't let on about it. "Hm, you may have a point. I might consider a half-dose, enough to make sure you two just sat quietly in the car..." 

Two spirits dared to hope - 

"Except for the trifling fact that you, _ma'am_ , are one of the most famous faces on the planet. Somehow I don't think people today would assume that you're merely another look-alike." The ringleader was almost within reach. That needle took on the proportions of a Roman spear as its point inched closer. 

Abbey sighed in defeated resignation and glanced away. She'd lost this round, utterly. 

The sole ray of hope left was that she still had her ring. Sooner or later, she'd be able to start signaling again. At some distant point in the unforeseeable future, the good guys would eventually find them... or whatever was left of them... 

She refused to turn back, to watch, to show any fear, even though every atom of her being shrieked at her to flee, to fight back, to escape that syringe at all costs. Resistance now would only get her killed that much faster. Just like in the limo, so long ago, she cast her vote for survival, and awaited the inevitable. 

With no warning, Lilli attacked. From a silent standstill in the background she hurled herself forward and smashed Judy aside so hard the woman fell to one knee, then tore into Punch like a berserker, seizing his gun in both hands and shoving it aside. 

_"Run!"_

The only one more astonished than their captors was Abbey herself. Like them, she understood Lilli's strategy in that blinding flash: get the firearm. And like them, she was stunned by this audacious and undeniably courageous strike for freedom. 

Her friend shouldn't be doing this. She wasn't trained for this. She was risking herself - 

"Lilli -" 

There were many neighborhoods in Washington where gunfire would not merit any real notice. This region might not be quite so inured to such violence, but the building's thick walls did muffle most of the blast. 

* * *

"What did you think you were _doing?"_

"Hey, _no one_ takes me on free of charge! She damned well got what was comin' to her. No more." 

"And where did you learn to aim? From a _book?_ " 

"Well, I really don't like getting shot myself, and I sure's hell wasn't gonna get shot with my own gun!" 

"Great. Don't you see what your hair-trigger has cost us?" 

"Man, _she_ started it!" 

"Will you two shut _up_ and at least get me a first-aid kit!" 

Punch and Judy turned together, her with hands on hips, him with pistol in hand. 

Abbey did _not_ turn. She was focused body and soul on combating the river of crimson life that flowed out between Lilli's ribs. 

Her Chief of Staff's supine form didn't move, save for the weak shifting of her head, back and forth, and the constant blinking of her dull eyes, both of which proclaimed agony. 

Clueing in that further lectures to her subordinate would avail nothing, Judy lapsed back into her role as boss kidnapper. "Now what possible reason could we have for helping her?" 

"She's a _life_! That should be reason enough for _anyone_!" 

"The lives of our enemies count for nothing." 

This time Abbey twisted around, glaring furiously at both. "She's not your enemy! What can she possibly do to you _now?_ " 

"Well, stop getting in our way, for starters. This episode of General Hospital is over. Haul her up and let's move." 

"I'm _not_ moving her," Abbey retorted, in total disregard for whatever anger her foes might feel or whatever methods of coercion they might employ. "She's _bleeding_!" 

"As if I care. That syringe sure isn't sterile now -" it had fallen to the floor "- but I don't care about _that_ , either." 

The threat was completely ignored. "Look, I'm on my knees here!" She had adopted this posture in order to treat her friend, but if it served another purpose, so much the better. She'd beg and gladly right now. Pride had no place here. "You claim to be patriots for a better America! Here's your chance to prove that you're the heroes you _think_ you are. Show one spark of human decency and call an ambulance!" 

Judy gave a derisive snort. "Yeah, right. We wouldn't have _any_ trouble explaining this. Forget it." 

Abbey snarled with all the ferocity of a lioness protecting her cub, turned her back on the pair she would have willingly attacked herself, and concentrated on staving off death's remorseless approach. She hiked her long evening dress several inches, to reveal a distinctly ragged white satin slip. Exhibiting a physical strength impressive for her diminutive stature, she ripped a good-sized chunk from it. The lace hem had already been removed; it was tied around Lilli's girth, across another wad of satin, trying to hold back the scarlet stream. 

The First Lady's hands never faltered, calling upon all of her medical skill and her natural compassion, even though she had no tools, so supplies at all. She was fighting literally with her bare hands. 

Somehow, despite growing desperation, she mustered a half-smile for her patient. "You're entirely too dedicated, you know that?" Her voice wavered slightly. 

Lilli didn't have the energy to look up, but she did manage a smile of her own. "Just... doing my job..." 

"It's _not_ your job, and it never has been. Now lie still and save your strength." Abbey carefully packed the wound some more, refusing to admit that it was useless. "I've never seen anything so brave in my life. I just wish it hadn't been _for_ my life!" She shook her head against the building despair. "I don't deserve that." 

Lilli breathed with deliberate care and conscious effort; this vital action should have been totally instinctive. "Couldn't... let them hurt you... First Lady..." 

"Oh, like that matters now!" Her First Lady reached down to grasp her hand, her blood staining both of their fingers. 

"And... friend..." 

For a moment Abbey couldn't find words, her throat constricted by emotion. 

"I'm so sorry I distracted you." If she hadn't cried out in surprise at that vital moment - " _I_ didn't want you to do that..." 

Lilli's breathing grew even more labored. 

"It's okay..." She swallowed, straining to find the air, the strength, for one last all-important message. "Tell... Aidan..." 

"I _know_ what to tell him, but I'm not - because _you_ will. You're going to get through this, Lilli. You _can_. You _must_. I'm not going to let you go yet. You said that my husband wouldn't give these villains the satisfaction of seeing him fall. Don't _you_ do it, either! You will _live_ , my friend. I want to book that day in the Mural Room where I can totally embarrass you on camera by telling the whole world how courageous you are." Abbey's voice rose. "Come on, girl, hang in there. Live. Do you hear me, Lilli? That's a direct order! _Live! LILLI!_ " 

On another plane of existence, the kidnappers had resumed their argument. 

"What's the thing about this woman, anyway? She's not worth the effort." 

Judy shook her head. "See, this is why _I'm_ in charge. Try to think a moment. Suppose Mrs. Bartlet here decides at one point to stage a bit of an uprising? What then? She wouldn't care if we threatened her directly, and we can't do anything _else_ to her husband right now. But you saw how worried she was over Colleen, a mere bodyguard. What if we held a gun to _Lilli's_ head? You seriously think the noble First Lady wouldn't cave then? You may have just killed our _second_ best advantage!" 

Punch threw in the towel. "Okay, okay. I'll get her." 

"No, you won't." 

This soft, unexpected statement brought both around, and made them realize that things had been strangely quiet in the center of the room for several seconds. 

Abbey had settled back onto her heels, very still, making no further effort at first aid. Both hands rested in her lap, the upraised palms smeared red. 

"What _now_?" Judy demanded. 

They couldn't see the tears that had finally been allowed to fall. 

"You can't do anything else to her now." Abbey's voice was low and empty. "She's escaped you." 

She just sat there, staring straight ahead at nothing... holding a vigil over the motionless body and closed eyes of her friend. 

Her employee. 

Her lifesaver. 

* * *

"Just leave her here? I don't know, boss..." 

"Well, there sure isn't any point in dragging a body along, is there? Besides, it doesn't matter who finds her, or when. There's nothing to link this place with the other two. They can't track us. And maybe this'll convince Bartlet that we're serious. Lilli was expendable, after all. She can deliver one more message for us." Judy smiled cruelly at the thought. "We're blameless, anyway. She knew the risk and she took it, and she paid for it. So let's stop beating our gums and go. The truck's ready?" 

"Yeah. Brent had it out earlier. He passed through two roadblocks, and none of the soldiers looked twice. Leaving the corner flap loose is really smart: nobody thinks you'd hide anything in an old pickup where the cover's not even fastened tight." 

"The mattress is in the back?" 

"And the tie-down straps." 

"Good; we're set. I'll ride in back, just in case." 

"You want another needle?" 

"Nah, not this time. We don't have a whole lot of the stuff, and we can't get more. Bring it just in case, but I don't think there'll be any trouble." Judy laughed, a sound devoid of anything like humor. "Look at her." 

The First Lady of the United States was apparently oblivious to all this discussion about her fate. She had pulled a sheet from one of the beds, and now draped it gently over the body on the floor, leaving only the feet exposed. No one could mistake that shape for anything else. 

Her vitality had fled. This went beyond the wrinkled evening dress, so out of place, and the less-than-perfect coiffure. Her movements were slow and tired, her expression of nothing but grief. She hesitated an extra heartbeat - hers alone - then lowered the veil upon the lifeless face, that simple action as final as the slam of a coffin's lid. And just knelt there for several moments, absently wringing her bloodied hands together as though trying futilely to wipe away the awful memory as well. She appeared totally uninterested in the world and indifferent to whatever could possibly happen next. 

Judy sauntered over, a length of black silk in hand. "Hop to it, ma'am. We've got a schedule to keep, after all. But who knows? Maybe this will get your hubby to wise up; you might be home in time for the funeral." 

Abbey didn't so much as look at her. Even that cutting remark failed to elicit a response. Nor did she offer the slightest resistance as her captor pulled her to her feet, and knotted the silk securely around her wrists. Then Judy took her by one elbow and led her firmly away, towards the door. 

Towards the future in all its peril. 

Abbey complied listlessly, eyes now downcast, doing exactly what her captors wanted. 

Punch shook his head in contempt at this loss of fighting spirit, and led the way. 

Then, on the very threshold - their prisoner stopped short. 

Jerked to a halt with her, Judy swore and whirled around, pistol in hand. " _What_?" 

Abbey did not reply. Instead she slowly rotated back towards the room: vacant now, except for that absolutely still shape on the floor. 

Strangely, she didn't seem to be looking at her friend's body, or for anything else visible to normal sight. From the dazed, puzzled look on her face, she might have been in a hypnotic trance. 

Had she just felt something? A presence, for one instant undeniably tangible? A wave of overwhelming emotion? A blast of what could only be sheer _fury_? From the other soul that completed hers? 

She spoke one word, one name, barely above a whisper. 

"Jed?" 


	22. Other Half of My Soul, The 22

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 22 ~ 

Any large city has its jungle element, an element containing similar features and factors: visibility, shelter, camouflage, dangers, flight, violence. An element governed by the same basic creed: survival of the fittest. 

The funny thing about the more upscale residential neighborhoods is that no one really thinks to look there for trouble... which can be a serious mistake. These lovely homes are simply better at disguise, a respectable yet thin veneer over the exact same brutal rule of might. 

The dozen or so armored stalkers closing in on their target exploited every cover and every advantage like the experts they were, despite the added complication of broad daylight. Even an alert lookout stationed inside that target would have had next to no chance of spotting them. In the relative quiet - a quiet unusual for almost any section of DC in midmorning - these urban hunters surrounded this particular address efficiently, invisibly and inexorably... much like a hangman's noose. 

One man lingered further back than the rest. Not only was he responsible for coordinating every detail of the assault, but he also carried a small two-way radio on a different frequency from what he and his field operatives used. This way he could report the highlights directly and immediately to his boss... inside the White House. 

Now he depressed the button of that radio, keeping his voice low just to be safe. "Consort to Crown. We're ready." 

One fateful pause... 

_"Proceed."_

"Big ten." He angled his mouth towards the mike in his helmet. "White squad, we are go." 

There was no dramatic charge in through the front door, no frenzied blast of automatic weapons, no life-and-death firefight engaged at once. Not yet. The Secret Service had something else in mind first, something that might further stack the odds in their favor - and in the hostages' favor as well. While several agents crouched just beyond the main entrance, out of sight, ready to sprint forward, smash it down and brave whatever resistance awaited them, several others crept in from every other possible angle. It might seem comical in retrospect, but in the city garbage cans make effective disguises... especially when they appear to be more confining than in fact they are. 

No matter how sharp enemy sentries might be, they would see no reason to watch a grouping of five such cans in an alley, so long as they could tell that no one was hiding behind. Certainly they'd have no reason to mark the naturally-static location of those cans... and therefore no way to tell that those cans were in fact inching closer. After all, no one could accomplish much crammed into a single can, and no one could shift multiple cans in unison without a fearful clatter... unless those cans were welded together, their interior walls extracted, and the resulting shell set upon a low platform with wheels. This created enough room inside for one highly-trained operative and quite a collection of ultra-sophisticated electronic equipment. 

Many nerve-racking minutes passed in silence; the approaches were very slow, so slow that there seemed to be no motion at all. Finally, however, confirmation signals started to come through on the Service channel. 

_"Eavesdrop Two, in position."_

"Eavesdrop Three, in position." 

"Eavesdrop One, in position." 

"Calibrate and report," the coordinator instructed. Then he activated the two-way again. "Consort to Crown. Surveillance units are in place, right against the building walls on three sides. Tracking begun." 

_"Big ten."_

There were nine pairs of laboring lungs and nine hammering hearts present, yet the Oval Office remained almost tomb-quiet. An apt comparison, considering the ghosts of past Presidents that just might be present as well. 

No previous Chief Executive could truly understand what national and personal dilemma the current incumbent faced. World war, civil war, natural disaster, terrorism, militant groups, assassination... Never before in the history of the United States had a member of the First Family been abducted. 

Leo stood at one corner of the executive desk. Ron stood at the other. Both were authorities in fighting for the safety of others: past war service and present _Secret_ Service. 

Josh and Sam occupied one couch, the best of friends that friends could be. Their shoulders almost touched. CJ and Toby occupied the other sofa, close friends and something more. He held her hand, comfortable and comforting. Charlie stayed in his chair near the door. His gaze flicked constantly from one person to another, the whites of his eyes flashing. 

These five did not dare to stand. That privilege had been restricted. They just sat and fought the overpowering urge to pace, to fidget, to talk, to do _anything_. 

The chair behind that desk was empty. 

In front of that desk, two men stood side by side... almost exactly like prisoners before the bench. Their postures were identical: spines stiff, fists clenched, faces pale. 

They _were_ prisoners - of _fear_. 

One was taller, the other heavier. One was definitely younger, regardless of hair color; the other was older, yet darker. One had nearly black eyes that smoldered like coals; one had blue eyes that blazed like a propane flame. One was a virtual nobody, unimportant, someone who would almost certainly never make the history books. 

The other... 

Usually he sat _behind_ that desk. But not now. 

In truth, there was no real difference between them at all. 

Fear has an actual smell. Right now it permeated this high office as it had surely never done before. The odds promised that, in the next few minutes, at least one of these two men would be a widower. 

_Might already be._

On that desk, now clear of the endless paperwork which controlled the most powerful nation on earth, sat a modest intercom-like radio transmitter. 

None of the nine moved, spoke or even breathed too hard, no matter how much they needed to vent the horrendous tension trapped within. The atmospheric pressure climbed, minute by minute, unstoppable, until each mind felt ready to explode - or implode. 

Under the cover of several apparently solid metal trashcans, three agents in combat attire fine-tuned their sensors, striving to learn every mote of data that existed, as near to seeing through walls as human science could accomplish. The status reports came in regularly. 

_"Eavesdrop One, negative on heat and sound."_

"Eavesdrop Two, negative on heat and sound." 

"Eavesdrop Three, negative on heat and sound." 

The coordinator began to get really worried about this total lack of progress. How could the place be empty of human body heat and voices when the First Lady's signal had unmistakably originated here, and been traced to here so recently? 

"Bird's Eyes, report." 

Inside the most proximate buildings, on upper floors, behind curtains or blinds, snipers were also in place. They used just as much care as the ground teams to stay out of view of anyone. 

_"Bird's Eye One, negative on the south."_

"Bird's Eye Two, negative on the west." 

"Bird's Eye Three, negative on the north." 

"Bird's Eye Four, negative on the east." 

The coordinator sighed, not at all pleased with their dwindling options. Again he addressed the two-way. 

"Consort to Crown. No sign of life at all. Orders?" 

Almost everyone in the Oval sighed, in relief, in disappointment, and in even greater concern. 

Ron depressed the button on his end. "They must've left just before we threw the net." He allowed no time for the ramifications of that to sink in. "Okay, secure the place." 

_"Big -"_

"Eavesdrop Three to Consort." That sudden, urgent transmission in "Consort's" helmet carried over the open two-way link as well. 

" _Crown, stand by._ " The coordinator switched off sharply. 

Almost everyone in the Oval glanced frantically around, dreading what new information had just come through, wishing they could hear the whole conversation and yet honestly glad they couldn't. 

The assault squad was using two frequencies for this very reason. If they encountered gunfire - or corpses - they did not want that fact to be broadcast instantaneously to the President. Not when one such corpse might be his wife's. 

"Eavesdrop Three, go." 

_"I'm getting a faint thermal reading on the second floor. Roughly human shape, not moving, not fluctuating in size or range."_

"Any sound at all?" 

The hidden agent peered again at his readouts in the low lighting inside those conjoined cans, fiddled with a few dials. "Still negative," he confirmed. 

"Damn. Probably either a human in medical shock... or a still-cooling body." The coordinator breathed out, _really_ glad that the White House hadn't heard _this_. 

The Oval Office occupants held so still that their joints and muscles ached from the effort not to move. What on earth was happening halfway across town? 

Then the transmitter crackled again. " _Consort to Crown. Heat signature on second story. Could be an explosive._ " 

Ron hesitated. Few detonation devices expel detectable heat. He guessed why "Consort" had used that term over a channel listened to by the principle hostage's husband. The explosive was almost certainly grief. 

Both operatives dearly hoped that no one else clued in to that fallacy. 

Leo might have, with his military background, and Toby as well. If they did, however, they likewise said nothing. Everyone else jerked up at the thought of a bomb. 

The strain in Bartlet's vision mounted visibly. If any of the attack team got caught in a blast... They were his employees, after all... people risking their lives for him... and for her... 

Could this be a deadly parting gift from kidnappers who had since fled, with or _without_ their captives? Or was this a booby-trap set by kidnappers still present, barricaded in and ready to fight? To _kill_? 

The field coordinator read into that pause, and knew all too well what he proposed next. "Permission to go in." 

If they stormed the place now, they'd be going in blind. Some of them could all too easily die. And then there was the question of the captives... assuming they were here _alive_... 

Would the next mission report over that radio be that the First Lady had been found? And in _what condition_? 

Ron looked at Bartlet. So did everyone else. 

Bartlet did not look to his top Secret Service agent for guidance, or to his Chief of Staff, or to his closest administrative advisors. Bartlet looked at Aidan Mayes. 

The President, as Commander-in-Chief, in a nationally-critical rescue operation, seeking consensus from someone he'd only met the day before and didn't really know, someone who had no experience in this sort of thing either? 

No: the President, as a husband, was consulting the other husband directly involved, asking if they _both_ were ready for this. 

An endless moment passed between them. 

No, they never _would_ be ready. But they had to do it anyway. They had to _know_. 

Aidan gritted his teeth so hard they almost cracked... and slowly nodded. 

The President's teeth were clenched as well. He waited another heartbeat, to be sure that his companion in this horror was sure, then nodded back. Then he looked at Ron. 

Everyone waited, their own muscles taut, for the final signal. 

The welfare of the agents involved, the punishment of the perpetrators, and the survival of two innocent women, hung on one trembling moment - 

Jed Bartlet drew a final deep breath. And nodded once more. 

Something glimmered in Ron's gaze: something that recognized what this decision had cost his leader to make. Then, not allowing time for a change of mind, he hit the transmitter's call button at once. 

"By order of the President. Permission granted." 

Strange, how so many different word combinations could all mimic a death-knell... 

For one instant, Bartlet almost looked like he wished he could intercept those words, break off the attack, do _anything_ rather than place his wife in the crossfire. 

_Too late_. 

"Consort" shifted into pure battle mode. The time had come. "Big ten, Crown." He pocketed the two-way; he wouldn't need it for awhile now. "White squad, we have the green." 

Every agent froze, weapons up, nerves primed, ready for instant action. 

"Eavesdroppers, watch for flight routes." Each trash can shelter had peepholes, and each agent within had his own firearm. "Gatecrashers, on my mark. White squad, final check." 

The confirmations came in. Everyone was set, and nothing had changed within the target. 

" _Mark!"_

Two men broke cover and rushed the front entrance at a dead run. The door didn't stand a chance. They smashed it open and vanished inside in less than three seconds. Four more followed hot on their heels. 

The six agents spread out and swept the place with lightning speed. Three immediately headed for the stairs. They cleared every room and every closet, prepared both to shoot and to protect anything that moved - never knowing if the next door they opened would reveal a kidnapper at bay... a hostage held at gunpoint... an automatic weapon aimed right at them... the trigger to a bomb that could level the building... 

In the Oval, every pair of eyes was fastening on the sole human link to all of this. Ron stared at his watch, timing everything against his own experience in just such an operation. 

No one spoke. There was little point asking questions to which no one had the answers. Their pounding heartbeats would have drowned out any words anyway. 

If anyone tried to read minds here now, they probably would have found it easy... 

Ron was totally focused on getting the job done. An agent had to turn off his emotions and go for the goal. Lives hung in the balance. He ignored everything and everyone else. 

The various staffers leaned forward in their seats, utterly caught up in the unbearable suspense. Josh kept running a hand through his now-wild-looking hair. Sam kept wiping at the constant perspiration on his forehead. CJ kept chewing the fingernails of her free hand. Toby kept tapping the fingers of his free hand. Charlie kept flexing his hands in his lap. They thought almost exclusively of their leader's wife's welfare... and of their leader's welfare as well. 

What would they witness in another minute: triumph - or _devastation?_

Leo was closer to their leader and to their leader's wife than anyone else present, but he forced himself to think about the bigger picture instead. Someone had to stay in control, had to be able to make decisions on a national level... even in the most appalling circumstances. 

The President hung onto his sanity by a meager thread indeed. This assault was ultimately his responsibility. He had approved the plan; he had okayed it to launch. If Abbey or Lilli died, or any agent... then in essence Jed Bartlet would have murdered them himself. The man, not the office. 

_Abbey..._

This was his nightmare come true. The absolute worse possible tragedy - and by far the greatest likelihood. 

_How_ could it end any differently _this_ time? 

_She_ was about to die... 

Aidan Mayes never denied to himself that _his_ wife was of lesser importance. If the kidnappers did leave a body behind, it would almost certainly be hers. If cornered, they'd know they were going down; they could easily kill _both_ prisoners just to spite their attackers - and the Secret Service would protect Abbey over Lilli. Hell, if they had no other option, the agents would _sacrifice_ a White House employee to save the First Lady. Everyone expected no less. For the sake of the nation, that would be an acceptable price to pay. 

So long as Abbey Bartlet survived, even if her Chief of Staff did _not_ , the whole damned country would celebrate. 

All but him. 

It required mere heartbeats for these young, fit and chillingly efficient men to reach the upper story. The ground floor and the basement had already been secured: if any armed opposition, any explosives or any corpses awaited, they would be here. The agent taking point blasted into the first bedroom, ready to shoot first, ask questions if he got the chance, or die before any of that - 

\- And braked for the first time. 

The coordinator outside, timing events just as Ron was, struggled to contain his impatience and nervousness. So much rode on success... 

" _Crasher Four to Consort. We have a body._ " 

He swore to himself. Oh, God, his next transmission to Crown would be horrible. 

Then combat instincts reasserted themselves. "Watch for diversions." 

One by one, the other agents reported in. The entire building had been checked and cleared. It was totally empty, except for... 

_"They've flown. But it looks like they left someone behind - not one of theirs."_

If so, then everyone knew whom it almost had to be. However, "Consort" needed to confirm before he told the White House. 

"Report. Do not approach." It could be a real body or a fake one; either way, it might also be a trap. 

The Gatecrasher leader paced carefully around this ominous form in a wide circle, examining every angle. "It's covered with a sheet from one of the beds. Assuming it's genuine, it's female. The shoes are showing." 

"You wouldn't expect terrorists to treat a corpse that kindly," the coordinator muttered, more to himself. This only backed up his suspicion, and everyone else's as well: one of the hostages must have survived, to show such respect for the dead. 

Then he considered something else. "What color are those shoes?" 

Pause. " _Brown_." 

And "Regina" had been wearing red. "Consort" exhaled in genuine relief. Too bad for the victim, of course, but it could have been much, much worse. 

He saw no point in relaying that detail to the other team members; cheers over their frequency would not be appropriate right now, even if they'd be natural. "Draw the sheet from a distance." He'd prefer to inform his boss once he knew his men were all right as well. Anything could be hidden under that shroud. 

One of the inside agents crept forward with a length of cord, testing the floorboards under each step. Using extreme care not to move the white cloth more than absolutely necessary, he knotted the cord tightly around one extreme corner. Then he backed away just as carefully. 

"Evac," the leader ordered crisply. The men obeyed. The one trailing the cord stopped just outside the door, which could provide some small shelter in the event of a detonation. 

He waited until his mates had descended the stairs; then, "Ready, Consort." 

" _Proceed_." 

Slowly and cautiously, one inch at a time, he tugged off the sheet. It offered little resistance. Bit by bit, the form under it came into view. 

Only the man assigned to this ultimately risky task could see. What he saw was the motionless form of the person they all expected, prevalent bloodstains, and - 

_"Consort to Crown!"_

Almost everyone in the Oval literally jumped. 

_This was it..._ the announcement they so dreaded. 

Everyone looked at the two men standing before that desk. 

The two men looked at each other. Their tortured expressions were perfect mirror images. _Which of them would now feel his soul self-destruct?_

Then they looked back at that radio, the tool that held the answer to their spouses' lives... and to their own... 

_"We've got Mayfair - and she's alive!"_

The instant silence that followed literally rang in the heads of all listeners. 

Their thoughts were one. No... it _couldn't_ be such good news... 

Ron took no chances. He hit that button fast. "Say again, Consort." 

_Repeat: Mayfair is ALIVE!"_

Aidan Mayes lifted his eyes to the heavens, and almost went over backwards. Somehow, Jed Bartlet recovered quickly enough to steady him. Leo closed in from the other side at once, and together they got him planted in the closest armchair. 

In unison, eight pairs of lungs heaved a joint sigh of overwhelming relief. Abbey wasn't there, so presumably she still lived - and against all odds, her fellow prisoner did too! 

None of them in their most optimistic moment had dared to entertain this possibility. The peculiar quiet persisted, since true victory had been delayed once more, yet some jubilation was definitely in order. Josh and Sam cracked huge grins and high-fived. CJ leaned into Toby and closed her eyes; he closed his as well and let his head sink forward. Charlie relaxed in his lonely chair and let his head fall back. Ron somehow projected satisfaction at a job well done without shifting his features at all. Leo just shook his head and smiled. 

Lilli's husband had expected people to celebrate despite her death, so long as her boss survived. Many people _would_ have, unable to help themselves. But Mayes had not expected these people now with him to celebrate _Lilli's_ survival when Abbey was still unaccounted for. Just the same, celebrate they did. 

All but one. 

The President gazed upon a man who had just had his entire existence restored... while he himself had not. 

Everyone else remembered that fact in a hurry, and their treasured instant of joy, the only bright moment any of them had known since all this started, faded away at once. 

When these two husbands first met, it had been Mayes who demonstrated anger, a resentment dangerously akin to hatred. How paradoxical life can be: now Bartlet was broadsided by an envy no less intense, and no less harmful. 

He managed to turn away, to refit the restrictive mask over his face before he revealed anything else untoward. 

He turned to Ron. 

Ron interpreted that glance correctly and reached for the radio again. "Copy, Consort. Good news. What details do you have?" 

The medical team that accompanied any assault team of this sort had already invaded the house and taken the East Wing Chief of Staff under their care. 

"She's in shock," one of them announced briefly. "She's been shot - lower right thorax. And she's been treated, and not long ago. There's not that much blood loss." He pointed to the improvised white satin dressing. "Whoever did this had almost nothing to work with, but she knew what she was doing." 

The gathered agents shared a nod. Everyone knew of the First Lady's profession. The preceding events could easily be guessed. 

"You think she'll make it?" the chief Gatecrasher wondered. 

"It's serious, but maybe not worse than that," the attendant estimated. "Let's get her out of here. If she stays this lucky, she'll pull through." They transferred Lilli to a stretcher and blanketed her warmly. 

She did appear to have cornered the market on good fortune. She was stirring. 

_"Consort to Crown. Mayfair is off to the Bee. One bullet wound, borderline critical. The first-aider was an expert. Our theory is that Regina treated her, then faked her death so the kidnappers would leave her behind."_

Almost everyone in the Oval cracked a smile at the First Lady's obvious skill and sheer brilliance under the most trying circumstances. 

Mayes did not. He was simply too dazed - by his wife's injury, by her frighteningly close call, and by her rescue. 

Bartlet didn't, either. He felt honest relief for his new friend, and for Lilli herself, but his own pain had only been amplified. Once again, they had no idea where Abbey could be... and this time she was alone. 

With an effort, he spoke. 

"Ron. Have someone take Aidan to whichever hospital that is." 

The senior agent nodded. "Bethesda." 

"Okay. Then fire up the tracing equipment again. You'll be getting another signal, soon." 

_I hope_ , the President's tone implied. 

"Yes, sir." Ron agreed clearly with both the order and the sentiment. He turned aside and quietly addressed his shirt cuff. 

Bartlet paused, breathing carefully, sorting through his many emotions. 

"Aidan." 

Slowly, his guest raised his head. 

"Your wife is on her way to safety." 

"My wife..." He stumbled around in the whirlwind of his thoughts. "Has been _shot_!" 

For once the President's eyes were soft, full of sympathy. "Your wife has been _rescued_. She's going to be fine. Go on. Be with her." 

That kind vision, that gentle tone, made Lilli's husband tremble. His only wish in the world had been granted... at who knew what expense to this other deeply-suffering man. 

He searched for words that wouldn't be either trite or gloating. "I'm sorry that your wife wasn't there as well." 

A spark flared anew in Bartlet's gaze. "We'll find her yet. Don't you worry about that. Just... go." 

In a way, the mere sight of Mayes' fulfillment made this even harder for him... 

Another Secret Service agent entered the chamber and stood just inside, waiting patiently. 

Mayes noticed this and, gathering his strength, rose. Gathering his nerve as well, he faced his President. 

"Thank you for saving her." 

His President showed no real triumph, yet he acknowledged that genuine gratitude. 

Aidan hesitated one more heartbeat, obviously guilt-stricken at feeling so overjoyed right now when this whole building - and the rest of the world - still agonized over the fate of the most beloved woman in America. 

"Good luck... Jed." 

Almost everyone else stared. Few people indeed were granted the privilege of a first-name basis with their Chief Executive. But Bartlet just inclined his head in silence acceptance. 

No one spoke as their visitor exited, on his way to happiness. 

And only one husband remained, still waiting. 

The celebration ended. Lilli Mayes had been delivered into the safety and care of the best medical expertise around. No one needed to worry about expendable prisoners or sacrificial lambs any longer. Everyone was free to concentrate on the victim still at risk. 

The First Lady. The wife of the President. The key to governmental chaos. 

The previous tension roared back among them like a tornado and swept into every heart anew. 

The grounding note that continued to hold despair at bay came from Leo. "She's still out there, but she's alive, and she has her wits about her. And she has her ring." 

So they'd come full circle, waiting again for that signal, and helpless to do anything else at all in the meantime. They faced the crushing disappointment that, after all this frantic effort and terrible suspense, they were no closer to Abbey Bartlet than before, and that her danger had not lessened an ounce. 

In fact, it had increased. The clock still ticked down to denouement: the Secret Service finally finding her and hopefully getting her out alive... or the DSA discovering her transponder and eliminating any way to trace her location... or the DSA realizing that her life was not going to buy them a presidential resignation and that they might as well cut their losses... 

Everyone studied their leader, more than a little anxious. These peaks of intense emotion just kept coming. If _they_ felt like nervous wrecks by now, how must _he_ feel? 

He didn't notice any of them. He stood there, before his own desk, staring out the window at the world beyond. 

Then these seven spectators, whom he'd plainly forgotten about, saw him take something from one pants pocket, and hold it in his palm. 

No: _two_ things. Two small metal objects. Several of those spectators strained to see, curious despite themselves. 

A pair of pearl earrings... left behind in an abandoned limousine. 

Had he been carrying them around all this time, like a talisman? If he held them close, could he grasp even the faintest sense of her presence? 

His fingers closed protectively around them, as his face turned into the streaming sunbeams and his eyes drifted shut. 

The Oval Office became a silent, reverent tableau as his closest colleagues all bowed their heads together and joined him. 


	23. Other Half of My Soul, The 23

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 23 ~ 

Bethesda Naval Hospital enjoys a status unparalleled on the East Coast. It is, after all, the locale of choice for Presidents, whether they _have_ a choice about receiving treatment or not - assuming it isn't so far away from an emergency as to be impractical, of course. Military brass and diplomats also preferred its comfort and high security. Patients here tended to think of themselves as more than a bit privileged. 

In this case the patient might not have qualified solely on her own merits, but Bethesda's proximity in crisis made up the slack. An executive connection didn't hurt, either... 

The moment the attending physician appeared, the only two people around sprang to their feet. Their postures radiated a tension that stretched the nerves to the breaking point, a tension unfortunately quite familiar to every hospital waiting room. 

"Dr. Hill?" the woman inquired, her tone indicating she already knew. "I'm Special Agent Colleen Reilly. This is Aidan Mayes, Lilli's husband." 

"Ah, yes." The surgeon was taller even than Aidan, though much heavier. He wore surgical scrubs decorated with an inevitable, dramatic spattering of blood. Of even more import to these two than that detail, however, was his lack of sorrow or defeat. He extended his hand. "Mr. Mayes, your wife will be fine." 

If Mayes hadn't gone prematurely silver over the preceding years, this day would have accomplished that on its own. He accepted the handshake absently, his whole self riveted to the doctor's last sentence and all its glorious meaning. 

Colleen released her held breath. "That's wonderful to hear." For a bodyguard, she was not acting as professionally as perhaps she might be expected to, but that didn't rank very high in her priorities right now. 

"Yes, the wound is serious, but we've repaired it. The bullet stopped against a back rib. There was only minor damage to a few internal organs. Mrs. Mayes will need rest for some weeks, but she'll recover." 

"May I see her?" Aidan all but pleaded. 

"Sure. However, she's still unconscious, and will be for at least another couple of hours." 

Mayes turned to Reilly, who turned to him at the exact same moment. They both knew what she would say next. 

Colleen exhaled a second time. "Doctor, I presume you're familiar with the situation concerning the First Lady?" 

Hill rolled his eyes. "Oh, yes. We're all geared up here and just waiting for the call. Assuming we're close enough when you find her, that is." 

"Lilli Mayes was part of that abduction as well - and right now she's our best source of information as to what has happened to Dr. Bartlet so far. I need to speak to Lilli as soon as humanly possible." 

Now he fidgeted. "I understand. She is out of danger... but I'm really reluctant to lift the sedative and wake her up earlier than normal. Not even for security reasons. My current concern has to be for her welfare alone." 

"Believe me, I understand as well. It's my job to protect her, too." Reilly forced herself to swallow compassion and adhere to duty. "However, neither of us has an alternative. The President, the government and the nation are at stake. Give me your professional opinion on the soonest you can revive her safely." 

The physician drew himself up. "I don't like to rank one human over another. In my opinion the military does that far too often. A life is a life." This coming from an officer himself. 

He hesitated; Colleen waited him out, trying not to twitch. He had a point. On the other hand, so did she. 

Then he nodded. "I'll check her condition in an hour. She might be stable enough then for a brief conversation. But," he added warningly, "if she's going to be coherent, I'll have to cut the morphine. Which means she'll be in no little pain as well." 

Reilly winced. Her responsibility to do _anything_ to find the First Lady that much sooner ran headlong into the knowledge that she would also be responsible for causing Lilli to suffer even more. 

Aidan broke the deadlock. "I'll decide, on behalf of my wife." 

The other two had just about forgotten him completely. They turned together. 

He nodded firmly. "I know Lilli would be willing to endure it, if she can help get Mrs. Bartlet back." 

Colleen relaxed in no small alleviation. "There you are, Doctor. Make your best judgment. Give Mr. Mayes some time alone with her, then come get me. I'll stay right here." 

It seemed a pretty fair compromise; Hill acquiesced. "I'll be back in an hour." 

Mayes watched the surgeon leave, then turned to Reilly, and touched her arm. "Thanks. For caring for her as well." 

She actually blushed. "Hey, the Service does try to show _some_ humanity. Now and then. Just don't tell anyone, okay? We also have a reputation to uphold." 

He grinned. "I think Lilli already knows." 

For the bodyguard, the next hour crawled. For the husband, it passed in a swift haze of unmitigated relief. For the patient, it didn't even exist. 

When Reilly was at last granted access, Lilli smiled. 

"You're okay," she whispered. 

Colleen stared. "I think that's _my_ line." The East Wing Chief of Staff looked horribly pale and weak, and the hand that Aidan held quivered every so often in spasms of pain. 

"Abbey and I... so worried about you." 

"Not half so much as we were worried about _you_!" Aidan insisted from his chair, placed as close to her side as he could get. 

Reilly decided to cut to the chase. The sooner she got her answers, the sooner Lilli could rest some more and be pain-free. "I'm sorry, but I had to ask the doctor to wake you up early. Can you talk to me for just a few minutes?" 

Lilli's brain was evidently working; she got the idea at once. "Sure... want to help..." 

Aidan's smile broadened; he knew his spouse, all right. 

"What can you tell me about the kidnappers?" 

"Two we saw... woman in charge... at least one man..." Lilli grinned dreamily at the recollection. "Punch and Judy..." 

Aidan guffawed. "What self-respecting kidnappers would choose aliases like that?" 

Lilli's soft smile broadened. "Abbey suggested it... they didn't even know..." 

"Boy, not very well-read, are they?" 

Gently, Colleen steered the conversation back. "You didn't see anyone else?" 

Lilli blinked, trying to think. "No... they drugged us. Needles - several of them." 

"They what?" her husband reacted in outrage. 

"I'll tell Dr. Hill," Reilly promised soothingly. "He'll work on isolating the substance and make sure there are no lingering effects or drug interactions. Go on, Lilli." 

"Um..." She sifted through the memories jumbled by the anesthetic and the few painkillers she'd been given. "They moved us... twice... were about to a third time... back inside the search limits..." 

"Inside, huh? Then they can't be far away at all. Three moves: that's a lot of advance planning. We'll see if we can trace them through ownership or rental records." 

"They seemed... pretty sure you can't..." 

"They just might be wrong about that. Everyone makes mistakes," Colleen admitted, hanging her own head. Both Mayes could see that she still felt she hadn't done her job properly at the start of this. 

Before either could comment on that, she pressed on. "Can you remember what happened to you?" 

Lilli's ashen face tightened. "I did... something impulsive." 

That said it all. Aidan let out a half-gasp, half-groan. "My God, Lilli, you _know_ better than that! You could've been _killed_!" 

His wife rolled her eyes. "Can you... explain to him?" she asked Reilly with just a touch of amusement. 

The special agent furrowed her brow. "Not really; this time I'm in agreement with him. You know that our boss wouldn't have wanted you to try something like that, either. On the other hand," she added, "you probably wouldn't be back with us now otherwise. But the only reason you aren't dead was because the First Lady convinced these villains that you'd already died." 

"And she just left Lilli there?" Aidan's anger returned. "Unattended? It could have been hours before anyone found her!" 

"It would still have been easier on her to lie quietly for a while, than to be roughly dragged about with an injury like that - or killed on the spot," Reilly pointed out. "The kidnappers never would have left Lilli behind _alive_. Besides, Dr. Bartlet had already signaled from that location. She knew we'd be there in no time. This way your wife got the treatment she needed, fast... and she got vital information to us as well." 

He subsided, seeing the logic of this. "Plus, you guys have more freedom to work now, right?" 

Colleen checked, not wanting to confess to that truth right in front of the person who'd been listed all along as a less important factor in the whole equation. 

Lilli read her expression correctly. "It's okay to admit it." 

One tried and true rule of politics: when uncomfortable with the current subject, change it. Reilly switched tracks. "Mr. Mayes, I hate to tell you this, but you'll have to stay put in here for the next little while." 

He gave her a strange look. "Like I _want_ to go anywhere -" 

"Because we have to keep Lilli's rescue secret," Colleen carefully informed them both. "If the kidnappers found out that the First Lady fooled them..." 

Two pairs of eyes grew round. What would those maniacs do to their prize captive _then_? 

Lilli covered her mouth, terrified by the thought that she might now be the direct cause of further risk to her boss and her friend. 

Reilly raised her palms in a pacifying gesture. "Take it easy. We were in and out of that place so fast, no reporter got there in time. Right now, the official word is that we recovered a body. That should allay any suspicions for the time -" 

Then suddenly Colleen went still, and her left hand flew to her left ear. 

Husband and wife froze also. They knew what that action meant. 

"I have to go." Reilly offered no explanation, but she never doubted that these two could guess. Nothing else would command such urgency right now. "Mr. Mayes, could you ask Dr. Hill about that drug check?" 

"Of course." 

"Thanks. Take good care of her." Colleen rested a hand briefly on his shoulder. "And thanks for all your help, Lilli. Now get better. The First Lady will kill me if you don't." With that parting dash of unexpected concern and humor, she hurried out the door. 

The Mayes stayed there in silence for several delicious heartbeats, content to do nothing more than be with each other. However, Aidan noticed the strain around his wife's eyes. 

"Okay, I'll call the doc. You need to rest." 

"Stay with me?" she asked, tremulously. 

He grinned and squeezed her hand a bit tighter. "Couldn't tear me away." He reached for the call button - 

The bedside phone rang. 

Both frowned. Bethesda wouldn't allow just anyone to call through, especially not to a patient in serious condition. The possibilities of who might be on the line were not many. 

"They can leave a message," Aidan suggested. All of his protective instincts had kicked in full force. 

"No." Between persistent dedication and natural curiosity, Lilli couldn't resist. "Answer it." 

He scowled, then reluctantly obeyed. "Hello?" 

A moment later, his eyes lit up. "Hey!" Pause. "Well, not great just yet, but that's kind of to be expected... Uh, I really don't want to tax her, you know... All right, five minutes." 

He hit the speakerphone toggle - that elaborate console was hard evidence of the high quality attention patients received here - and replaced the receiver. "You're on." 

_"How are you feeling, Lilli?"_

She jerked, trying instinctively to sit up and failing utterly. "Mr. President!" 

Both could almost hear the smile in Jed Bartlet's voice. He'd dialed this call himself, too. No intermediaries as would be expected for a world leader. _"Relax. Don't strain yourself. I just wanted a brief word. You don't know how glad I am that you're safe."_ Pause. _"You also don't know how sorry I am that you got caught up in this nonsense in the first place."_

It took a lot of heart for him to say that so sincerely, considering how worried about his own wife he still had to be. 

"That's all right, sir..." 

_"No, it isn't, but we won't pursue that now."_ His tone became rueful. _"I'd visit you in person, if I wasn't still under lock and key here. But rest assured that I know precisely what you're going through."_

The Mayes stared at each other, suddenly remembering a national crisis just over a year ago, and a President rushed to the ER himself. 

"... Yes, sir - I know you do..." 

_"Well, I thought you'd appreciate some encouragement, based on a little experience. You're going to be fine, Lilli. You'll be as good as new in no time."_

They believed him, without question. He'd been hit in much the same fashion at Rosslyn, and he'd fully recovered... and he couldn't have received much better care than she was now, at his express command. 

Come to think of it, that executive reassurance was probably intended for Aidan's benefit as much as his wife's. 

_"And you'll be amazed at how fast the fear fades... when you have others supporting you every step of the way."_

Lilli tried to swallow, and failed. How kind of their leader to share that knowledge! Knowledge that had been very bitterly gained, too. 

Then his tone shifted to heartbreaking earnestness. _"There's no way I can thank you enough for your selfless efforts to help Abbey through this crisis."_

Lilli blinked at sudden tears. "She did an awful lot for me as well, sir." 

Another pause. _"That's very good to hear. It brings some comfort to us all."_

Lilli fought her fragile emotions. "I'm sorry... I left her alone..." 

_"Don't you worry about it. I mean that. We're on it. We'll have her home in no time."_

The Mayes shared a concerned glance. Did the President know that Colleen had just blasted out of here? Obviously something new had cropped up. The Service might not have told him yet, to spare him just a bit more anguish just a bit longer... or perhaps he simply didn't want to talk about it, and needed to be distracted. They chose to play safe and not mention it either. 

Come to think of it, the timing of his call just about guaranteed collusion somewhere. Reilly must have been under orders to let him know of a good time to phone, when Lilli was awake. He was too considerate to intrude more than necessary. 

She didn't say so; that would only be embarrassing all round. "I... hope Aidan behaved himself in the White House, sir." 

Her husband pulled a face. 

_"Oh, absolutely. Nothing like a good fight to make fast friends."_

She looked horrified. Her husband laughed out loud. 

_"Now you get some rest, Lilli. We'll ALL see you again soon. God bless."_

* * *

When a prisoner gets _déjâ vu_ , it's a pretty good sign of prolonged captivity - or repeated captivity. Perhaps repeat offenders of the legal system felt much the same way. 

Abbey Bartlet paced her new quarters, without haste yet without cease. In a dim, uncaring fashion she noted the simple twin beds, the otherwise barren room and the boarded-up window, a close match to her previous confinement. Her captors had planned ahead very long-term. How many of these "safe houses" did they have? How often did they intend to move? 

How many times would she be forced to move - at the point of a gun or a needle? 

How long were they prepared to hold her? A week? A month? When would it finally sink in that Jed would not, could not accede to their demands? They couldn't maintain this private penitentiary forever, constantly on the move, constantly on alert, braced for a jailbreak or discovery by neighbors or battle with the authorities. It had to be even harder on Punch and Judy than on their hostage. 

Their only eventual recourse was to make sure that the vanished First Lady would never be found. Even if they failed to accomplish their actual goal, this would save their traitorous hides, as well as make sure that the President they so hated wouldn't get his wish either. 

And then he'd die. More slowly and painfully than his wife would, but no less surely. 

How was he? How was Lilli? Had they even found her yet? Or was she still lying there all this time, still bleeding? _Dying?_

Abbey had made the only possible choice in Lilli's favor... but to just walk off and leave her had been one of the most difficult decisions ever. 

She yanked away from that thought and kept pacing. Her heels pounded out a sharp, echoing report on the bare floorboards. 

She could envision Jed doing the very same on the blue carpet of the Oval Office. That gave her a peculiar sense of unity, as though certain vital reference points to her existence would never be moved. They both agonized over the other... and they would not give up. 

She struggled to stay fully alert, knowing all too well that either rescue or execution could come at any moment. It became more and more difficult to maintain such vigilance as the day lengthened uneventfully. She still had no watch, so she couldn't even guess at the time. The mind works at far too high a speed to estimate minutes and hours accurately. 

In the first terrifying moments of the abduction, she had derived no small comfort from Colleen's presence, even with a gun to her head: her training, her quiet dedication and determination to see Abbey through safely no matter what - although Abbey most definitely had not wanted Colleen hurt in her defense. Later, Lilli had provided invaluable companionship and a focus away from Abbey's own anxieties, a specific reason to maintain her self-control. Actually, Lilli had dealt with it very well, considering. Just having someone else stand with you is a bolster to your own courage. It had worked for both of them. 

Now, Abbey was totally alone. 

The First Lady spent very little time alone these days, ever. If she wasn't working with members of her staff, she'd be meeting business representatives, diplomats, charity leaders... she traveled constantly on out-of-town and even international missions, each crammed end to end with events. Somewhere in all that, she tried to make time for her family. Meanwhile, at least two Secret Service agents stood always within hail. 

This was true solitude. Not solitude by choice with a good book after a busy day. And not only did Abbey hate it, but she'd begun to grasp its genuine psychological effect. It impacted upon her whole attitude - her personality - and adversely at that. She didn't have to present a calm and graceful front for the benefit of others. No one watched her every move, ready to report on her words, her fashion sense and her famous poise, ready to be critical if she acted or spoke the least bit inappropriately. No one subtly quizzed her on just how she felt about her husband's policies. No one crowded her, thrilled to see that unflappable dignity up close; no one followed her, prepared to dive between her and danger, objecting if she moved beyond arm's reach. For once she didn't have to examine and second-guess every conceivable reaction before permitting it; she could shed that armor of ever-cautious reserve and slip the chains on her identity. 

No one relied on her to keep a cool head in a hostage crisis anymore, either. She needn't consider others' safety, or preserve the façade of normalcy because others found it reassuring. She could be undeniably herself. She could show anger, impatience, frustration and fear. 

At this moment the frustration overrode everything else, and it mounted further with each pass across the room. Few things can spawn greater aggravation and terror that this feeling of helplessness while your fate is being decided elsewhere by your enemies. Both chewed away at Abbey's mind with hot teeth, further inciting her to vent, to lash out, to do something. 

That sort of thing hardly fit with what people expected of her station, but right now she could not have cared less. She sure didn't look much like the First Lady; her dress was rumpled and bloodstained, her hair unkempt and wild, her features fully unmasked of either make-up or self-restraint. She didn't feel like the First Lady, either; grimy and physically unwell, frightened and anxious and enraged as she had never been before in her life. 

Suddenly, she stopped. Her leading shoe rang out louder than ever under the force of braking. 

Her voice rang out almost as loudly. "Dammit, Jed, will you find me before I go completely crazy here?" 

As though in answer to her exasperated summons, the door latch clicked. 

She whirled. For one instant she would not have been the least bit surprised to see her husband standing there, responding to her plea at once as though he'd just waited all this time for her to invite him, arriving in the most dramatic manner exactly like her own white knight. The modern armor style would be black and bulletproof, but she wouldn't mind one bit - 

No chance; her husband was the President. They'd never let him come. 

When Judy stepped into view, Abbey fought down a gigantic burning desire to take her on personally. The woman wore her sidearm as usual, Punch couldn't be far from that open door, and there had to be at least one more foe around here someplace. Still, the desire to unleash all of those pent-up emotions right here, right now, was intense. 

Judy had her own peeve to air. "Will you stop pacing? You're driving us nuts!" Those gunshot-like footfalls probably reverberated downstairs no less than up here. 

The satisfaction at inflicting at least some punishment of her own, and the challenge to comply or else, further braced Abbey's spine for combat. "Just returning the favor." 

Either Judy noticed this atmosphere of firmer opposition and decided to quash it at once, or else she's originally planned to visit for a separate reason. "It's been almost two days, and not one whisper from the White House about resignation." 

"Good for them," Abbey declared stoutly. 

"Not so good for you." 

"Or you." 

"Or us," Judy agreed calmly. "So I think it's time to make another overture, before something happens that we all regret." 

Which told Abbey on no uncertain terms that, if anyone attempted a rescue, she herself would be the first casualty. 

She'd more or less expected that all along; it failed to scare her now. "Don't expect any cooperation from me." 

Judy rolled her eyes. "Don't you want to live through this?" 

"Sure. Don't you?" 

Abbey didn't add that the Secret Service would kill without hesitation to protect her. In all likelihood her captor was thinking the same thing. Nor did she mention that her rescuers would at least try to take the perpetrators alive, so that punishment could be meted out much more slowly. 

Judy folded her arms and planted her feet. "My friends and I would give our lives for our country." 

"So would I. So would the people looking for me. So would my husband." 

Mention of the President made the boss kidnapper's eyes flare. "All right, at least try to look at this logically, will you?" 

Abbey mirrored that aggressive stance perfectly. Her two inches of lesser height, even with those spikes, didn't deter her in the least. "Pot, meet kettle." 

"Oh, please. Now I want a straight answer. Why on earth do you want your husband in such a dangerous position?" 

"I don't." Abbey smiled grimly at her captor's brief surprise. "But someone has to take the risk, and he's the best man for the job." 

"He's sick!" This was something Judy just could not understand. 

"He can function just fine." Abbey promised herself that if this woman made one wisecrack about the different ways Jed functioned, she'd go down in the next heartbeat, gun or no gun. 

"Yeah, but for how long? He could die tomorrow!" 

Abbey couldn't hide a wince. "Or someone could shoot at him again. It makes no difference to the government or the Constitution." 

"Or he could linger. How can he lead us in that state?" 

"The country has provision for that, too. Didn't you attend elementary school?" 

"Well, we sure shouldn't increase the odds against ourselves. We can't have a leader who could just collapse, or be unable to concentrate, or make decisions. We can't have a President who's not totally fit." 

Caught between her role as a wife and her profession as a doctor, Abbey could feel her temper fraying dangerously. "Don't you get it? This could happen to _anyone_! What's to say the next President elected won't have some similar disease or hereditary weakness buried in his genes that even he doesn't know about? Are you going to demand a full DNA screen on whoever even applies for the job in the future? Are you going to forbid anyone with so much as a hint of medical trouble from public office entirely? What about the law of privacy?" 

None of this rhetoric made any obvious impression. "How can you stand there and defend such insanity? Our nation has to be strong! Our leader has to be strong! That's more important than one man's privacy!" 

Rebuttal came almost without conscious thought. "Strength is not just in the body, you know. My husband's real strength lies in his mind and his spirit. And he deserves the freedom to use those strengths every chance he can, for as long as he can. Just like anyone else." 

"He damned well should have admitted this up front before running the first time," Judy grumbled, almost willing to concede that point, at least - almost. "And he certainly shouldn't be running again!" 

This time Abbey uttered a short bark of a laugh. "You want to know the supreme irony of all this? I didn't want him to run again, either." 

This time, Judy was too astonished to speak. 

"In fact, for the past months I've been doing my level best to talk him out of it. I don't want a second term to shorten his life. The stress of that office might not accelerate his condition, but then again it might." 

For once Judy looked off-balance. "Well, why the hell didn't you tell me sooner?" She threw up both hands. "We're on the same side after all!" She turned away and started to pace herself. "Okay, this makes everything a lot easier. I'm sure you can convince him to resign. I'll get some paper and you can write him a letter. You'll know what to say." The pacing gathered speed. "This is great! He'll listen to you. You'll be back home in no time. We get what we want, and you get what you want - him." 

Abbey's vision spat sparks. "You misunderstand," she said quietly, coldly. 

At the tone, as much as at the words, Judy stopped. 

"I said I didn't want him to run again. Guess what: I've changed my mind. And I'll just bet you can't guess who changed it." 

Judy's mouth fell open, dumbfounded. 

"What?" 

"Now I do want him to run after all. If only to spite folks like you." 

Judy could not grasp this. "He's sick! And he lied about it!" 

Abbey dug in, bracing herself, refusing to give an inch. "My husband was right not to reveal his condition before his previous election, because narrow-minded people like you would never have given him a fighting chance. Now he's had that chance, and he's proven himself to be a damned good President in the process. He was right to come clean before this next election, so that everyone can decide if he deserves a second chance." 

"He lied to the people!" They stood face to face, engaged in a clash of ideologies that had little hope of common ground. "He can't be trusted!" 

"Then let the people decide that!" Abbey came close to shouting this time. "Let it go to a vote, and let the majority rule. That's the definition of a democracy. A free democracy. The United States will not be cowed or blackmailed. Far better for the President to campaign and lose, than for him to not try at all because some misguided wackos are holding a gun to his head!" 

All right, that accusation flew straight in the face of established security procedure: do not antagonize your captors. 

Abbey didn't care one jot. 

In the sudden quiet, Judy slowly shook her head. 

"Man. I honestly thought that the honorable First Lady at least would be able to see sense in this. But if even you can be corrupted by the lust for power, then we'll just have to take that power away from you before our nation suffers any more damage. The people need to be shown the truth. If it takes violence, then so be it. The War of Independence was long and bloody, but look what we gained. Guess it's time to start fresh again." She drew herself up proudly. "Good thing the Defenders of a Strong America are here." 

"You've murdered three people in two days, two of them in cold blood." Abbey spoke through clenched teeth, quiet and intense. "Is this the example you want to set for a better America, where only the strong survive? Where everyone takes what they want, and destroys everything in their way? If this is your vision of our glorious future, then I want no part of it. I'll emigrate rather than live under such barbaric rule. But before I resort to that and abandon this land to anarchy, I'll come for you first." 

For one shattered second, Judy almost looked frightened, almost believed that vow. 

In the next, she shook it off. "You can fantasize all you want, ma'am. But the only way President Bartlet will get his beloved wife back is in small fragments." 

"Which is just _fine_ with me!" 

The kidnapper actually stepped back in disbelief. 

"That way you won't achieve your twisted agenda. The people will re-elect him for sure, if only out of sympathy. Not that _you'll_ live long enough to see it." And the First Lady meant every single word. 

She channeled all of her physical strength into standing stone-still, rock-steady - knowing that her jailer was cornered and mad enough to take drastic measures... knowing that in one more heartbeat she just might be facing her firing squad. 

She channeled all of her mental strength into projecting a silent message, a telepathic burst of pure focus, against all odds, towards the one person who just might be able to hear it... or at least sense its meaning. 

_Jed, you have to be strong. You've got to go on. LIVE, Jed. Live for the girls._

Live for ME. 

Something glittered in Judy's eyes that did not need interpretation. Her right hand reached for her pistol. 

Abbey's last prayer was for her husband, not for herself. _Dear Lord, look after him..._

The barricaded window across the room burst apart with a bang. Glass shattered, two wooden planks spun off to either side, and the concealing curtain between these two layers blew inward. Both women whirled that way - just in time to see a small, dark object sail through the new aperture. 

And explode. 

Somehow, despite her utter surprise, Abbey remembered her past security briefings. She spun away, squeezed her eyes tight shut, clamped her hands over her ears, and ducked. Barely in time: the real detonation hurled irresistible waves through the air that bowled her almost gently off her feet. She couldn't tell if anything actually hit her, either shrapnel or bullets. She couldn't tell if she saw real stars and lightning or merely imagined them. She couldn't tell if there were multiple blasts around her, or if the echoes existed only in her brain. She just let the flattening concussion wash over her and allowed the rolling motion to stop whenever it chose to... if it ever would... 

* * *

In the White House, in the Oval Office, in that leather chair, Jed Bartlet's head rose. 

There might have been other people in the room with him; he never noticed. Suddenly, out of the blue, his attention - indeed, his entire being - had been seized. 

His head turned, like a sensitive radar unit, scanning the atmosphere. His expression firmed, blocking out any hint of emotion. His eyes searched desperately for things not visible on this plane. 

Slowly, he stood. Slowly, he moved to the window, as if drawn there against his will. One hand came to rest flat on the glass, as if through its bulletproof hardness he could reach out and grasp the ethereal link that had tenuously nudged him. 

What did he feel? A new, unanticipated strength... or a loss of strength? 

"No..." 


	24. Other Half of My Soul, The 24

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 24 ~ 

Armored figures hurried through the building, up and down stairs, in and out of room, across wooden floors and around each other. Huge automatic weapons swept all angles; both alertness and anxiety showed on all faces. 

"All targets accounted for. Four total." 

"The paddy wagon's two minutes away." 

"That can wait until we get her out." 

"Right. Secure the exit line." 

"A stretcher will be a real problem on these stairs." 

"Fine; we'll carry her instead." 

"Got the blanket?" 

"All set." 

"Okay, let's roll!" 

"Could you all stop shouting, please? My head hurts." 

That last line was much quieter than all the others, yet it instantly commanded full attention. The seven or eight men milling about at once froze in place, comically. Then they all looked down. 

The First Lady of the United States lay flat on the hard floor. A blanket from one of the beds had been tucked carefully around her body. Her eyes were shut tight and her face twisted with discomfort. Never had she looked less like her official role. 

Everyone drew back - save for the two crouched protectively on either side of her. 

"Dr. Bartlet? Can you hear me?" one asked. 

"I think this is where I came in," Abbey murmured, trying to lift a hand and failing weakly. " _What_ is going on?" She squinted into moving white fire, her pulse accelerating - 

"Lie still, ma'am. It's Agent Todd Bourque. Everything's under control. Keep your eyes closed for now. The effects of the stun grenade will wear off in just a few more minutes. You're going to be fine." 

Abbey processed all of that information for a few seconds. "Todd... right." She exhaled in an abiding relief. "I take it the cavalry finally arrived." 

The agent gave a soft chuckle. "Yes, ma'am. Sorry we're late. Traffic, you know." He aimed specifically at soothing her fears. 

"Ricco Delpero, ma'am," the second man introduced himself. "We've found you, and now we're going to get you out of here. Don't try to help; just let us do the work. Todd and I are going to pick you up between us and carry you down some stairs. Then we'll make a short dash through the open to an ambulance. Is that okay with you?" 

She clearly didn't like the idea of going anywhere when she couldn't see, couldn't move. They read the glaring apprehension. They didn't want to force her into anything; they'd been briefed on not upsetting her more than she already was. Still, security... speed... 

"I'm hardly in a position to argue with you." 

"Don't worry, ma'am; you'll be back to normal in no time. It's very temporary. Do you feel like sitting up?" 

Abbey tried again to open her eyes, and to move her limbs. This time both obeyed; that fact alone hugely improved her state of mind. 

She surveyed the crowd of armored agents standing protectively around her. "I'm sure you're all in a rush to leave, so let's do it." 

Exhibiting extraordinary care, checking with her level of mental and physical comfort every step of the way, the two men on either side assisted their First Lady into a seated position, smoothly yet trying not to hurry. She would naturally be uneased by all this activity after her horrid experience and her recent blackout. Ever so gently, they raised her in their joined arms, blanket and all, as though she was in a sedan chair, and bore her across the floor and out of her most recent prison. 

With every passing minute, she felt stronger and could see and hear more normally. The maneuver downstairs didn't jostle her at all. However, the sprint that had been mentioned before was yet to come. They stopped well inside the door, gathering their strength. 

A third agent approached, one Abbey did not know offhand. His heavy black attire made him look even more formidable. She instinctively tensed in her bearers' arms, feeling terribly vulnerable. This nightmare wasn't over yet. 

He held a sheet of heavy, plain gray fabric that glimmered slightly. "Mrs. Bartlet, this is a Kevlar blanket. It's bulletproof. It'll protect you in the open." 

"You want to put that thing over me?" She didn't sound thrilled by the idea - most likely because, with her head covered, she wouldn't be able to see _anything_. 

"It's all right, ma'am," Bourque insisted quietly, sincerely. "It's only for a few seconds, that's all. We just found you; we don't want to take any chances now. Ricco and I are right here with you, okay? Honest, it's okay." 

They waited, trying not to fidget with impatience, as the wife of their elected national leader - who happened to be mentally and physically traumatized right now - grappled with the concept and further delayed their whisking her to safety. 

The fact that they actually gave her that time to feel all right about it must have helped her decide. She took a careful breath, and nodded. 

Seconds later, Bourque and Delpero burst through the doorway and quick-marched the ten short yards to the waiting ambulance. They kept in step and strode as smoothly as possible. Heavy weaponry guarded them on all sides. No one drawn to the activity or lying in wait would have had more than the most fleeting glimpse of that gray mummy-like shape before it disappeared from sight. At once those double doors closed and the ambulance spun tires, escorted closely by a horde of police and military vehicles both. 

"Dr. Bartlet?" The swathed figure had been placed upright on a gurney against one interior wall; now gentle hands eased the thick, high-tech protective layer away. 

"Get this _off_ of me." Abbey shoved it away from her face - and blinked in equal parts surprise and delight. "Colleen!" 

Her favorite bodyguard sat beside her, smiling broadly. Rather than assault armor, she wore a standard business suit - perfectly normal. _Reassuringly_ normal. "Good to see you, too, ma'am." 

"You're all right!" 

"I think that should be _my_ line, ma'am." Which made them both chuckle. 

"Oops; hold on." Reilly offered support as their fast-moving conveyance turned sharply left. "How do you feel?" She had professional reasons to ask, but there was nothing distant and reserved about her tone. 

Abbey thought about it. "About the same way I did after you shoved me into the limo all those _years_ ago." The old twinkle was beginning to return to her vision. 

"I think we can consider that satisfactory." Colleen looked around. Bourque and Delpero had headed for the front of the swaying ambulance to give them some space. She nodded her two-fold gratitude. "Well done, boys." 

Then she turned back, suddenly trying to sound officious. "Ma'am, I have to make a call." 

Slowly, Abbey smiled. "Oh, please do." 

Colleen smiled back, in like mind, as she lifted her right wrist. "Reilly to Crown." 

Every Secret Service agent on the same channel must have stopped whatever they were doing to hear _this_ transmission. 

Just imagine the stillness in the White House. 

Abbey could have sworn she felt that stillness herself right now... 

"Regina is secure and well." 

... and she could have sworn she heard the yell. 

That brief statement made her safety _real_ , for _everyone_. 

She also felt something - a wave of the most delicious relief, so tangible that it could not have been solely her own. A relief pouring out of many different hearts together. Especially _one_ heart. It positively enveloped her. 

Colleen listened for another few moments. "Affirmative. Out." She lowered her hand, but couldn't seem to stop grinning. "Well. May I say, ma'am, that was the happiest message I've ever handled in my life." 

"I'm more than happy to oblige." 

A strange quiet descended, broken only by the motion, the rumble of the engine and the blur of sirens. It did resemble that rapid exit from the Monarch, the last time these two women had been together. 

Abbey glanced around, feeling rather at a loss. She had absolutely no idea what to do or say next. Then it really hit her that she was free. 

At last. 

Reilly reached for a folded white wool blanket to one side. Only when she draped it around the First Lady, right over the first blanket, did Abbey discover that she was shivering. The delayed shock had set in. 

"It's all right, ma'am. You're safe now, and you'll be home in just a little while longer." Colleen made a point of talking quietly, steadily, offering her voice as an anchor. "In case it makes you feel a bit better, I insisted on this duty. I well remember what CJ Cregg went through last year. So did Ron, and he grilled all of us along the same lines. We knew you'd be feeling a bit out of sorts. We had to get you out of there, but we wanted to cause as little stress as possible in the process. Well, that urgency is over now. We've got everything in hand." 

Gradually, the warmth and the comforting words penetrated together. Abbey wedged herself into the corner a bit more firmly, so that she shifted less and so that she could look her protector more easily in the eye, and forced herself to concentrate. 

"They did fine. Thank you." 

"The least any of us can do, ma'am. We're all just so glad to have you back. Would you like anything? Some water?" 

"Some answers." A long list of questions clamored to be solved; they'd provide a welcome distraction for a bad case of shaken nerves. "How's Lilli?" 

Reilly's persistent smile broadened, in pleasure at this encouraging self-possession and in anticipation of the news she was about to impart. "She's also going to be fine. We found her only a very short time after you left that last place of confinement." 

Abbey's shoulders slumped. "Thank God. I'd never have forgiven myself if she... even though I knew it was the best thing to do..." 

"Yes, ma'am, it was. This way she passed on some info that made our second attempt go much better." 

Abbey chuckled bitterly. "That was not my primary concern at the time, but let's be grateful for any extra benefits attached. Where is she? I want to see her." 

Colleen raised both palms. "Already thought of, ma'am. She's at Bethesda, and we're on our way there right now." 

_"Good."_

Having asked about the one whose life had been more directly threatened, Abbey now moved on to the other life that worried her most... the one she could not stand to be without. 

"And... the President?" She couldn't hide her urgency now. 

Reilly had known that this was coming as well. Her quiet happiness never faltered, a guarantee against the worst news of all. "He's perfectly well." 

_"Really?"_ His wife couldn't believe it just like that. She'd been in a frenzy over him for far too long. 

"I mean, he's been going through this right with you, ma'am. He tried hard to hide it, but we could see how much he was hurting. Even so, he's endured it all with his health and his administration intact." 

"I honestly am not interested in an intact administration right now," Abbey muttered. Still, it was good to hear; if things had truly fallen apart, Punch and Judy would have won after all. "You're sure about his health?" 

Colleen just kept smiling. "One hundred per cent, ma'am. I made certain of that; I knew you'd ask." 

The First Lady sagged back, lifted her eyes to the heavens on the other side of that vehicle roof, and let out a long, slow sigh, as though bleeding off an eternity of the deepest and most torturous concern. 

Not even the constant sirens seemed to intrude this time. 

"I feel like I've just shed an entire mountain range of weight." Abbey let the outer blanket fall open a bit; she also felt much warmer. An excellent sign. 

"So. My husband is all right. Lilli's all right." 

" _You're_ all right," Reilly added, refusing to leave out the most important part. 

"And so are _you_ ," her protectee countered - with just the faintest hint of a question. 

She looked down for the first time, and now her smile did fade. "Well, more or less." 

"What happened at your end?" Abbey demanded sharply. "Not that gas, I take it -" 

"No, ma'am, not that. I wasn't out for long." Colleen still didn't meet her gaze. "I just want to apologize so badly for letting you down when you needed me mo -" 

"Stop that right now." Abbey leaned forward and caught her hand, compelling her to look up. "You are not to bear any fault in this whatsoever. You did everything you could. And the most important thing of all is that you came through all right. I was so afraid they'd _killed_ you." The First Lady paused for import. "You're not just a bodyguard, Colleen. You're a friend. And even if you _were_ 'just a bodyguard,' I'd still be delighted that you're okay. Don't doubt that for one living moment, you hear me? I don't want _anyone_ to die for me, ever again." 

Every time she thought of those two other agents, murdered just because they were in Punch and Judy's way, her heart contracted. 

By slow yet steady degrees, the guilt cleared from Reilly's young features. 

"Thank you, ma'am," she whispered, all professionalism abandoned. For now. 

Abbey squeezed her hand a bit tighter, saying more than words and even more eloquently, before she sat back and cuddled into her blankets again. Any more time spent on this subject would only add to their mutual discomfort. 

"All right, then. So much for the headlines. I think I'm ready for some details. I've been out of the loop far too long." 

Colleen peered forward, checking their location. "I think we've got enough time for the most recent events. The rest of the nation's affairs will take a bit longer, I'm afraid." 

Abbey grimaced. "I can imagine." 

"Yes, ma'am. We were ready when you signaled again. We cleared the whole area and surrounded the building. The surveillance teams established that people were home this time, and how many, and where everyone was. Then some of our guys planted small charges on a couple of windows. We didn't want shrapnel flying in all directions, but we had to break through fast. The safest approach was to incapacitate everyone in the place at once, including you, rather than risk any kidnapper finding a single moment's opportunity to harm you." 

Abbey raised an eyebrow, remembering. "Stun grenades?" One hand emerged from her cocoon to rub her forehead. 

"Exactly. I apologize for the headache. This way the culprits were apprehended as well, instead of just killed." 

"Excellent work." There might have been more than a single note of vengeance in Abbey's tone that time, but it could be forgiven. "Any casualties?" 

"No one among the assault team. The woman with you, however, still had her gun in hand when our boys arrived, and she tried to put up a fight." 

"Dead?" 

"Nope; she was too disorientated to shoot straight, so they winged her instead." 

"She's being treated?" Abbey's medical instincts sprang out of hiding. 

"Another ambulance will be there by now." Reilly's look grew distinctly more dangerous. "I expect she'll live." 

In the next few seconds, those medical instincts - which made no distinction between friend and foe - joined forces with natural compassion for humanity to wage open warfare against blazing human outrage at what Abbey, Lilli, Jed and everyone else had been put through. 

It was a close race, with a photo finish. "Good." The First Lady meant that in the most altruistic sense. Then her eyes narrowed. "I'd like a word with her at one point, though. And this time, it'll be on _my_ terms." 

* * *

As usual, the business of the nation trundled onward, no matter what upheavals might be happening elsewhere - even when those upheavals were not far from its very heart, either in distance or in influence. Perhaps this was a better sign than one might at first suppose: that the darkest calamity of one governmental branch could not bring down the entire structure. Democracy itself is a delicate thing. It has to be reinforced on all sides so that it can weather the harshest storm. 

"Mr. Speaker, the foreign trade stipulations imposed by this government last year have not achieved their alleged purpose," a Senator droned on to his learned colleagues in the fairly-full Upper Chamber. "The theory was that this would stimulate domestic production..." 

A man in a dark suit, who had been standing unobtrusively at the large room's back wall, suddenly moved forward, as he normally never did. 

"... in order to bolster the American economy..." 

The orator did not see this man's swift passage. The Speaker did, and sat up straighter with an apprehensive frown. 

So did John Hoynes. 

"Instead, it has placed a greater burden on the lower-income taxpayer that..." 

The man strode silently down the center aisle and straight to the front of the chamber. By now everyone else had noticed this very irregular intrusion. Finally the discoursing Senator did as well; he trailed off, and removed his spectacles. Interestingly, he did not look peeved at being so blatantly upstaged. Instead, he looked concerned. 

So did the rest of the Senate. 

Hoynes sat frozen in his seat. 

So did the rest of the Senate. 

The man completely ignored the Speaker, went straight to the Vice President on that same exalted dais, and whispered a brief message in his ear. 

The day's business was forgotten. No one needed to actually see the small earphone wire to guess at the invader's occupation. This had to be critical. 

For perhaps five endless seconds after the messenger stepped back, Hoynes still did not move. His face remained expressionless, both to the import of that news bulletin and to the weight of all eyes upon him. 

Then, solemnly, he rose. 

Everyone held their breath. 

"Mr. Speaker?" 

"Of course, Mr. President." No hesitation. 

Everyone braced themselves, fearing the very worst. The worst being... Good heavens, could the President of the Senate have just become...? 

Hoynes surveyed the whole room. 

His sudden smile was brilliant and genuine. "The First Lady - has been rescued." 

The paneled walls of this great chamber enjoyed one instant of trembling silence before the thunderous outbreak of cheers. 


	25. Other Half of My Soul, The 25

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 25 ~ 

The First Lady's Bethesda accommodations looked rather more like a hotel room than a sick room. It still contained the hospital-style bed and banks of medical equipment on hand, but did not have that featureless, impersonal atmosphere. From a soft beige motif to a few tasteful paintings to a luxury of space, the stark white sterility associated with all hospitals had been broken. The fact that its present occupant was not laid out and in pain also helped. 

"How do you feel, ma'am?" 

"You can stop asking me that any time now, Colleen. I'm fine." 

Curious how both members of the First Couple used that word so often to describe their status... more like a disguise or a parry than anything else. 

"Sorry. I guess I just can't hear it often enough." Reilly didn't sound sorry in the least. She stood near the door, out of the way yet instantly on hand if needed, providing companionship as well as protection, both without any pressure at all. 

"Fact is, I don't think _I_ can, either." Abbey stood in the center of the room, straightening her blazer self-consciously. "Thanks for bringing a few things." 

"Are they satisfactory?" Colleen had selected these items herself from her protectee's sizable collection back in the White House, having planned for this moment ever since she returned to duty the day before. The elegantly-simple off-white skirt and jacket ensemble helped to mask Abbey's lingering pallor, and the light cerise blouse lent her face some color. 

"Believe me: so long as it's clean and pressed, it's welcome." She raked fingers through her flowing, gleaming, tangle-free hair, savoring its renewed silkiness. "I'm starting to feel like _me_ again." 

She looked it, too, and not merely in attire. The confidence, the grace, the humor, the inner strength - these were not just part of the First Lady's public image. They were integral components of Abigail Bartlet. They had survived her ordeal, and were returning towards their proper levels. 

"On the other hand, I won't feel _absolutely_ like me until I'm home. I do not like being the patient myself." 

Reilly's grin widened. 

Her boss spotted that and grinned back. "Don't you tell me it's a control thing." 

"Wouldn't think of it, ma'am. It's an unfamiliar sensation, after all." 

Abbey rolled her eyes. "I do hope I wasn't too hard on everyone here." She made it sound like she'd drawn blood from whoever dared step across her threshold. 

Colleen considered this. "Well, ma'am, I think that any degree of prudent fear the staff might have felt at the start has been pretty much demolished by now. Your good nature just got out of hand." 

This time Abbey laughed. "Okay, I know what you're doing: you're helping this poor, terrorized victim along her slow road to recovery. I appreciate it - especially since I've never seen this witty side of you before." 

Reilly tried to re-establish the old image of the stern, coldly-efficient professional. "Just doing my job, ma'am." 

"Above and beyond the call, and don't try to deny it." Abbey didn't go on, but her expressive dark eyes said all the rest. 

Someone knocked. 

The tableau of two chatting friends dissipated at once. Abbey stiffened automatically, nerves jangling. Colleen whirled, a hand on her weapon in a flash. 

"Dr. Bartlet? Todd Bourque." 

Both women relaxed, one in relief that she was safe, one in embarrassment that she had overreacted. 

"Come in, Todd." 

Bourque obeyed, stopping just far enough in to let the door close. This courtesy went beyond even the usual high respect that the First Lady merited. No one wanted to risk applying the slightest stress, by word, action or just proximity. "Is there anything you'd like, ma'am? Anything at all?" 

Abbey's brow furrowed. "Hm, let me think. It's not like I'm used to everyone waiting on me hand and foot like this." 

Both agents smiled. This woman never _wasn't_ treated like royalty, save for when she expressly requested not to be, such as in the rustic setting of the Manchester family home. Elsewhere, in the White House or abroad, she simply couldn't get away from it. 

Their smiles also indicated a personal delight at this very healthy display of their protectee's famous dry humor. 

"I've received a clean bill of health, despite having been used as a pincushion." She rubbed her right shoulder reflexively. "And as a target for grenade practice." She flicked an eyebrow at her two companions to indicate that she was not being critical of their procedure; they both breathed again. "I've cleaned up a few other ways, too." Again she fingered her hair, then brushed her collar, and then glanced towards the dining table and the covered remains of a light meal. Her physical needs had been seen to with alacrity. 

"I've spoken to my daughters. I've spoken to my _grand_ daughter. I've spoken to my parents. If we're lucky, the bill for _that_ call won't break the bank." Abbey paused, her expression growing nostalgic. "Funny how parents will treat their children like children, no matter how old and independent they become." 

Neither agent inquired if that comment was meant for Abbey's parents or Abbey herself. 

"However, I _haven't_ called the families of those two agents who died." Her eyes dropped. "I... need a bit more time." Her battered equilibrium wasn't up to that strain just yet. 

All three shared a respectful silence. 

Interesting that she didn't mention the single most important contact of all... 

"Now. I want to see Lilli." Abbey projected concern. 

"Of course, ma'am," Bourque said, promptly. That made perfect sense. 

"And I want to see Judy, or whatever her real name is." Abbey projected determination. 

"Uh - yes, ma'am," Reilly said, hesitantly. That made somewhat _less_ perfect sense. 

"And then I want to go home." 

This time Bourque's head lifted in opposition. "That will be more of a problem." 

Abbey's head lifted in challenge. She didn't quite come to his collarbone. " _Eliminate_ the problem." Clearly she refused to _be_ refused on _this_ subject. 

"Ma'am, the doctors were most specific -" 

"Then you bring the doctors in here and I'll tell them exactly what I'm going to tell you. I'm a physician as well, don't forget, and I think I can still evaluate a patient's condition - even when that patient is myself." 

She folded her arms and fixed both agents with a cold glare. "Here's another factor to consider while you're at it. The President has not, of course, been allowed to come here. I don't doubt for one moment that he's been fighting Ron tooth and nail ever since you guys found me. The sooner I get to him, the better off the entire Secret Service will be." 

Score one for Abbey's perceptiveness. No one in the White House would know peace until Jed Bartlet was with his wife again. 

The subtext was equally self-evident: _she_ wouldn't know peace, either. 

"Also, you wouldn't risk admitting him to the same building as my assailants - because we all know that he'd go after them with blood in his eye." For a moment Abbey smiled just a bit, fully appreciating the romantic image of a husband moving heaven and earth to protect his wife, and then meting out retribution personally. "None of us need that headline, no matter how much some of us might enjoy watching." 

Bourque hesitated, finding a lapse in the logic here. "You could just call him, ma'am..." 

Her lips tightened; her vision turned inward. "No." 

He shot a wondering look at Colleen. Come to think of it, the President hadn't called himself. Strange, considering what a row he'd kicked up to come in person... 

Abruptly, Abbey turned away, so that neither could see her face. Long seconds ticked past as she regulated her breathing... and her still-ragged emotions. 

"If I hear his voice now..." 

...she'd break down completely - and so would he. Both of them knew at last and for certain that the other was all right; both could wait just a bit longer before they both finally let go. Even the most public couple in the world deserved _some_ privacy. 

At last Bourque sighed. "I'll make the arrangements. We can do a very quiet trip with no fanfare at all - even through the tunnels, ma'am, if you want. To spare you any unwanted attention so soon." 

Pause. Then Abbey revolved back. 

"I appreciate the offer, and it's very tempting..." 

Instantly, they both _knew_ what she'd say next. 

"But no. No secrecy. I know what state the nation's been in for the last two days; you don't have to tell me. It's time to get back to normal. We need to show everyone that all is well again. That is my duty - and I'm going to have to go on display at some point anyway. I might as well get it over with now, so that my family and I can have some time to ourselves afterwards." 

That speech went a long way towards alleviating any professional _or_ personal concerns. The aura of the First Lady, the public icon, had been fully reinstated. The woman behind that image, the one allowed to be afraid and hurt, would just have to wait. Again. 

"Tell whomever you must. I won't hide from the people. I don't have to. Just..." She paused again, on the verge of a plea. "Do it soon." 

Bourque took this as his cue to leave, before he inadvertently caused any more distress. He actually bowed to her on the way out. 

Reilly remained. She gauged the mood very carefully, waiting until she felt sure that her boss had herself more in hand. 

"Ma'am?" 

A deep breath. "Yes?" 

Colleen hesitated. "Uh... the President sent you something." She pointed to the bedside table. On it, unnoticed until now, sat a small rectangular box about six inches long, wrapped in bright silver paper and bound with a red ribbon. 

Abbey stared at it, hit by puzzlement and... something else? 

Reilly took this as _her_ cue. "I'll be right outside if you need me, ma'am." She agreed with the whole privacy issue, even when her job so often demanded that she violate it. 

The door closed softly behind her. Only then did Abbey move. She had all the privacy she could desire to learn what her husband was up to this time. She walked over, one slow step at a time, picked up the mysterious little present, shook it lightly, tested its mass, then carefully peeled away its happy wrapping... and removed the lid. 

Inside, nestled in soft powder-blue tissue, her inaugural wristwatch seemed to wink at her. 

* * *

When someone knocked, Aidan Mayes had a very good idea who it was. By the time the door swung open he'd already begun to rise. 

"Don't even think about it, Aidan." Abbey waved him down. "If you let go of your wife's hand, I'm not sure which of us will be more annoyed at you." 

He obeyed, grinning hugely - at her humor, or just at her presence? Probably both. "It's great to see you, Dr. Bartlet." 

"You're sweet." She patted him on the shoulder... and then her whole attention fastened on the occupant of the bed. 

Lilli's eyes were closed, but her breathing came easily, and the ECG gave regular, reassuring beeps. The white pillow, however, lent pointed emphasis to her pale features. 

"How is she?" Abbey asked quietly, anxiously. 

"Groggy... but on the mend," a tired female voice volunteered. 

The First Lady did a double take. "You're supposed to be sleeping!" For a moment she sounded exactly like a mother scolding her child. 

Aidan shrugged, smiling even more broadly. "She said earlier that if I let her sleep through your visit, she'd never forgive me." 

Lilli cracked her eyes open, and smiled as well. "I'm so _glad_ to see you..." 

Abbey circled the bed and took her friend's other hand, her gaze very soft. "The feeling's mutual, believe me." 

"Are you all right?" From the distinct quaver in Lilli's weak tone, no information could possibly mean so much to her right now as the answer to that simple question. 

Her boss hesitated for one heartbeat, probably tempted to pass off the whole thing lightly and avoid causing any additional concern. But this ultra-loyal employee and genuine partner deserved more honesty than that. 

"I will be, before long." That came closer to an admission of emotional scarring than anyone had heard the First Lady even hint at before this. "And so will you." 

Aidan winced in pure compassion - for both of them. 

Lilli tightened her fingers, expressing what words could never accurately convey. She knew this famous woman very well; she knew how to read between the lines, and she knew when certain subjects should be dropped. 

"I'll be back to work in no time," she promised. 

"Good. You know I can't accomplish a thing without you." Abbey tried to make that line sound like a joke, but the reality of it defeated her purpose. Then suddenly all attempts to keep this casual went by the wayside. "I have to tell you... leaving you behind like that, unattended... it was one of the most terrible decisions I've ever made." 

"You saved my life..." 

"By going against every instinct I've ever known. Even though all the logic in the world insisted that you'd be better off, and that you'd be found in no time..." Abbey had to close her eyes for a moment and reign herself in. "Also, I dearly wanted to leave my ring with you. That way, at least I'd have _known_ that you'd be found and treated in time." 

Lilli blinked, her own eyes shining. "'Course you couldn't. Procedures." 

"It goes beyond that. The thing was, two agents had already died on my detail, and I knew that more would soon be taking the same risk. I agonized over it for what felt like ages. But... I had to accept my own position. My responsibilities." 

Abbey exhaled, obviously feeling a deep-set guilt for being forced to admit _herself_ that her life could be valued more highly than others'. Including the injured woman in the bed before her right now. "I'm sorry." 

Through her gathering tears, Lilli still smiled. "It's okay. You did what you had to. Both times." 

How often does _anyone_ get the chance to absolve the First Lady? 

Then she launched into an apology herself. "Sorry I didn't listen to you... about not doing anything without discussing it first..." 

"If you were trying to scare me, you succeeded beautifully. On the other hand, it did get you out of those lunatics' clutches." Abbey shifted, a nervous movement quite unlike her. "Lilli, you guard my back every day at the office already. I can't have you stepping into the firing line as well, got it? You're a little too indispensable. Don't try _anything_ like that, ever again." 

The East Wing Chief of Staff pondered this, and her vision grew dreamy. "No promises." 

Her boss glanced at the ceiling in mock despair. 

Aidan groaned under his breath. That wife of his was too dedicated for her own good. 

Standing silently by the door, Colleen Reilly just shook her head. 

It is a very curious thing how swiftly moments like these can shift from tender to awkward. After a few seconds' quiet, Abbey cleared her throat and produced a new topic. A medical one, which allowed her to adopt a familiar stance and recover her composure. 

"Oh, I checked with Dr. Hill. That sedative they used is called 'Versed.' It's common in hospitals, although we still don't know how Punch and Judy got hold of it in the first place. Surgeons like it because it causes amnesia of the event, which means the patient can't remember anything he or she might have overheard in the OR. So, if you or I had happened to come around at the wrong moment, we wouldn't have retained the memory later on. Also, considering their experimental approach, one of those doses could have lasted anywhere from thirty minutes to seven hours. Too much of that stuff can shut down the central nervous system. No wonder we felt so nasty earlier." 

At Aidan's gasp, she offered a comforting smile. "Don't worry. By now it's purged, and there'll be no complications. All I can say is, Someone's been watching over us." 

Lilli relaxed with a sigh, exhausted in body and mind. "Amen," she whispered. 

"Same here," Aidan offered. "But regardless of whatever omnipotent hand has been involved, ma'am, I can't thank you enough for all _you've_ done. For _both_ of us." 

Abbey started to look embarrassed again. "I wouldn't have had it any other way. Now please let the matter drop. I hear you and my husband hit it off yesterday." 

He snickered. "That's one way of putting it." Lilli rolled her eyes. Abbey glimpsed that and her brows descended in puzzlement. "May I offer my congratulations on the President's own well-being." 

The First Lady inclined her head. "Thank you. That's kind." 

"I hear his ratings have climbed quite a bit lately, too. I know that such a detail is not very important right now," Aidan added quickly, "but it's still good news." 

Pause. "You do have a point. However, I've no desire to engage in another publicity stunt like this for a long time!" 

Both Mayes chuckled. 

"Oh, and something else." Lilli's husband stretched his free hand over to the small, carved wooden chest on the bedside table. He handled it almost fondly. "The President gave me Lilli's jewelry in this." 

Humans have a bad habit of not noticing things until they are actually pointed out. All at once no one could miss the fact that Lilli was wearing earrings, her watch and a beautiful silver pendant necklace despite her unprepossessing hospital smock. Abbey automatically fingered her own watch. Colleen couldn't resist the urge to do the same with hers. 

All three women had returned safely. The repossession of their personal items seemed to set a physical stamp on that truth. 

Then Abbey looked at the container extended towards her... and her eyes sparkled. "I gave that box to Jed years ago. That he gave it to you in this nightmare is a touching bit of symbolism. And before you ask, I am not taking it back. I want you to keep it. In memory of your - _our_ \- happy ending." 

* * *

This plain portal, adorned with only a number, took on the proportions of a twenty-foot-tall closet door - the kind that all children know hides at least one monster at night. 

Abbey took a slow, steadying breath, holding herself very tightly in control... and nodded to Reilly. Reilly reached behind her suit jacket and grimly drew her automatic pistol, just holding it at her side, ready. Then she nodded in turn to the agent posted outside. He produced a key, unlocked the door and led both women inside. 

Bethesda was known for its security as well as its privilege. It had made perfect sense to bring Judy here. In fact, she was being treated better than any other hospital could offer - better than many people would say she deserved. 

That courtesy did nothing for her temper. She all but sneered at her visitors. 

Her former hostage advanced slowly to the foot of the bed, expression carefully neutral, and took a moment to study this woman who had so brutally impacted upon her life... at least for the present. 

This woman who had become the embodiment of fear. 

Their previous positions had been exactly reversed. This time it was Abbey who appeared immaculate, in control, backed up by firepower and superior numbers. However, she didn't display the anger, the arrogance, the ugly satisfaction in another's discomfort that Judy had then, and still did even now. 

"Hello, Judy." She spoke in a quiet, measured tone that revealed nothing. "I wanted to see how you were doing." 

"As if you care," the former boss kidnapper almost spit back. "I'm amazed you had the courage to face me, even with your friends along." She threw a particularly mean glance at Colleen, whose fingers clenched harder around the butt of her weapon. 

Her former captive raised an eyebrow. "The definition of courage is to overcome adversity. It may take a little time, but I _will_ overcome your memory." 

Judy's sneer magnified, clearly not buying that wholesale. 

Abbey's features grew sad. "If the only pleasure you have left is in knowing that you've hurt me, then I pity you." 

Judy's sneer vanished, turning to frank surprise - and then to rage. Pity is an emotion that stymies all oppressors. 

"And as a matter of fact, I _do_ care. That's one of the differences between us. I'm sorry you were injured. You wouldn't have been if you hadn't resisted the inevitable." 

Judging from the thick bulge of bandages around Judy's right shoulder, the damage wrought by the Secret Service invasion would be a long time healing. 

"You and your people should have killed me when you had the chance!" she snarled back. 

Reilly bared her teeth in a parody of a smile, remembering when she'd said much the same thing once before. 

"That would have been a lot better from your perspective, wouldn't it?" Abbey shook her head. "Instead, you'll pay the full legal penalty. You get to be made an example of, rather than a martyr. Perhaps this will deter others from choosing the same course of action. Unlike you, we don't summarily execute people who get in our way. We try to show them the error of _their_ ways." 

"You think your idea of justice and mercy will convince me that you're right after all?" Judy retorted. "What about all that sermonizing on the privacy of the individual? You call _this_ privacy?" She gestured sharply at the video camera on the wall, watching her every move. "Of course these basic rights don't apply to people you don't like. You're as much of a hypocrite as your husband is!" 

"Don't be absurd." More knowing minds could have warned her that when Abbey Bartlet's voice dropped in pitch like this, the recipient was in serious trouble. "You forfeited your claim to human rights when you tried to deny those same rights to others. But don't worry; even prison inmates are entitled to certain civil liberties." She permitted a brief, grim smile. "Meanwhile, certain agencies are tracing the ownership records of the houses you used. We'll find whatever other members of your freedom-fighting band there may be. They won't get the chance to continue your legacy." 

Judy let out a furious oath. "Go ahead and gloat, Mrs. high and mighty First Lady. You've already _had_ your revenge. I'll never fully use this arm again!" 

Abbey just stood there, comprehension written on her face in block letters. "So now you can relate to all those people you despise, people that you think aren't worthy of full human status: people with handicaps, either from illness or disability. And yours is a very visible handicap at that. Interestingly, the President's is both invisible and less debilitating. For now, at least," she admitted, "and there is the possibility that his condition will never worsen." She struggled not to give in to the very human desire for gloating, as she'd just been accused, despite this ironic justice. "In the same way, your arm might recover better than you expect. Meanwhile, you can learn to live with it just like so many others do every day, and maybe you'll come to understand that _your_ life can still have a great deal of value and accomplishment." 

If pity can disorient the enemy, so can compassion. Judy couldn't seem to think of a savage rejoinder to this. 

"Do you know," Abbey went on with deceptive calm, "a surprising amount of good has come out of this whole event. I feel like I owe you a veritable debt of gratitude." 

If pity and compassion disorient, gratitude completely disarms. Judy just gaped, stunned to speechlessness. 

"Don't mistake me: it's been a nightmare for quite a few of us. Still, it lasted a relatively brief period, and I've come through it physically well. So has my husband." Abbey paused, her smile growing. "So has Lilli." 

That achieved the full effect she wanted. " _What_?" 

"Oh, yes. Fortunately, you accepted my word _that_ time." Then Abbey continued, her amusement fading. "Unfortunately, two good men did die. A lot of others risked their lives to find me and to stop you. The government, the city and the nation experienced more than a little disarray. Still, there have been a few benefits. The President demonstrated his ability to lead, and to lead well, even when he's under the worst kind of strain. Politicians from all affiliations came together to support him, as did citizens from all over the country and all around the world. He's even received a considerable popularity boost in the polls." That last point would make a deeper impression on Judy than it had on Abbey, which was the only reason she included it. "Because of you, Americans are more convinced than ever that he's good at his job. Not only that, you proved beyond any doubt that he's not too weak to handle it." 

The ex-terrorist sat there in her hospital bed and faced this vivid portrayal of her utter failure to accomplish any of her goals. 

"So... despite your best efforts to the contrary, we the people did not fall. We're just too stubborn to let folks like you push us around. In fact, you've helped us to grow stronger and more united. For _that_ , I thank you. A few bad dreams on my part will be an acceptable price to pay." 

This would be the best conceivable revenge Abbey could hope to inflict upon her former kidnapper... if indeed revenge was her purpose. 

The parallel between them came full circle. Last time it had been Abbey who pretended to be crushed by the death of her friend. This time, Judy had truly been crushed by the death of her dream. 

Now, having accomplished all that, the First Lady adopted an attitude more in keeping with her public role, her social duty. 

"Patriotism is one of the most noble sentiments. Still, it can be corrupted." 

Judy started to show fresh signs of opposition at this veiled insult. 

Abbey did not pause. "It can also be redeemed. I hope that one day in the future, you'll be able to make a _constructive_ contribution to this nation that we both love so much." 


	26. Other Half of My Soul, The 26

**The Other Half of My Soul**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** Jed, Abbey  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Some people will do *anything* to make sure Jed Bartlet does not run again.  
**Written:** Oct, 01  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to “Sonata in C MaJor” (by me) and “Legingen” (a WW fic written by Meghan Reilly) 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 26 ~ 

One constant of the human condition is that news is lifeblood. People may not always like it - but once they've had a taste they can't live without it, can't get enough of it, can't obtain it fast enough. And nothing travels more swiftly than really bad news. 

The news of the First Lady's abduction spread around the globe in virtually no time. 

The news of the First Lady's rescue must have placed a very close second indeed, at least in America. 

The news of the First Lady's _homecoming_ blew through America's capital city with the speed of light itself. 

One form of traffic chaos ended, to be replaced almost immediately by another. The roadblocks and spot-checks lifted at once, but all of those police and military personnel couldn't just pile into their own cars and vanish in an eyewink anyway, so they contributed a bit more of their time towards clearing the motorcade's route and controlling the crowds. Good thing, too; a new jam fast developed as vehicles of every description carried a tide of humanity towards 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, as though drawn by an irresistible force. It seemed that every last person in town wanted to see their uncrowned queen come home. 

At the hospital, any staff and patients who could possibly manage it gathered at the main entrance to watch their star guest take her leave. Reporters and public alike pressed behind hastily-erected fences outside, and no one seemed to mind too much if they couldn't get that great a view. It was sufficient just to stand there, feel the happiness all around, hear the cheers, see the long black limousine pull away with its precious cargo and its extensive escort of flashing lights and blaring sirens, and _know_ that she was safe at last. 

Outside the White House, that stretch of avenue closed to all normal traffic bore a startling resemblance to an aisle of red carpet, inviolate - a resemblance accentuated by the absolutely black throngs straining the rope lines and spilling backwards into Lafayette Square. It almost defied belief that there could be so many people in the entire city. Police officers and soldiers had been stationed every few yards... in all truth, more like a ceremonial role than for serious defense. The sudden, beyond-all-hope holiday mood had infected just about everyone. 

_In_ side the White House, almost every single desk stood abandoned, and the halls were eerily empty. Only those who simply could not desert their posts resigned themselves to staying put. The North Portico entrance seemed to possess an uncanny gravitational strength, drawing all people to itself. The long curved driveway remained clear, of course, but fully thirteen hundred employees stood on the lawn right across from the main staircase. 

At the base of that staircase and on the left, the White House Press Corps had been permitted to gather. There was, after all, no way this event could be denied its coverage. Actually, these reporters appeared to be in an expansive mood themselves, astonishingly patient, not jockeying for position or jousting with their equipment. 

In the fore of this media contingent, Danny Concannon didn't even have his notebook out. Some moments cannot be reported; they have to be _experienced_. 

At the base of that staircase and on the right, a smaller, even more orderly knot of spectators contained some of the best-known faces in DC. This cluster of sharp business suits, skirts and dresses represented the mainstream muscle of American federal government... and John Hoynes stood at their head. 

None of these politicians was particularly used to being kept waiting around anymore. 

None of them was heard to complain today. One and all, they acted perfectly content to just stand together, chat quietly, and watch the gate like everybody else. 

On the staircase itself, wide and flaring and climbing a dozen steps or so, rose the honor guard. It boasted no colorful uniforms, no polished buckles, no flashing medals, and no weapons in sight. It was comprised of civilians: the West Wing and East Wing Senior Staffs. Those who knew the First Lady best. 

Ceremony and protocol had no place here today, in this hour of unfettered joy. However, from the look of things this lucky group had insisted on showing such an overwhelming moment the respect and dignity it deserved. They stood shoulder to shoulder, one on each step, the President's cadre to the left. Donna and Nancy were included, to their unbounded delight; they didn't mind in the least being on the lowest levels. Charlie was next, shoulders back and hands clasped behind, stiff and solemn and proud. By contrast, Sam bounced constantly on his toes, brimming with excitement. CJ, taller than ever from her place above his, nudged him now and then to calm down, yet she too could not restrain her smile. Toby, despite his own military past, slouched a bit, immobile and morose as ever - or so one might think who didn't really know him. Josh grinned quietly, arms folded, not the slightest bit impatient, clearly prepared to stay there all day if he had to. An even greater oasis of calm, his craggy features fighting a similar desire to really relax, Leo occupied the last step before the landing. 

Some ten feet across from this octet, the First Lady's staff had lined up in identical format. Among them, like honorary guests, stood Jenny and Mallory O'Brien - as well as Ainsley Hayes. Eyebrows might have lifted in surprise, even in objection... but no one protested aloud. This was not a publicity stunt where inclusion could be bought, where people could barter their way into favored positions with political promises. This was a national celebration. Besides, these invitations had come from the Oval Office. 

One step down from the top, the place of the East Wing Chief of Staff was conspicuously vacant. 

The Secret Service seemed to be more discreet today than anyone could remember. Only the most observant individuals glimpsed Ron and his fellows lingering in the background, ever alert yet determined not to infringe upon this moment of personal triumph for _everyone_. 

Besides, all eyes not fastened expectantly on the main entrance turned instead to the three people on the stair landing. 

Eleanor and Zoey fidgeted nonstop, whispering to each other, barely able to contain their eagerness. Both had spent fully half their lives in the public eye, and knew how to behave as the children of a political figure should, but neither gave much thought to that right now. They quite simply didn't care about the cameras aimed their way. They thought about one thing, and one thing only. 

Even in their tremendous anticipation of restored family union, though, the girls gave their father some space. He stood dead center, the secondary focus to this whole occasion, perfectly motionless. Of all the people gathered here now, he had to be the only one not showing at least _some_ happiness. His taut posture did not ease, fists pocketed, muscles tense... and his expression remained stern, totally locked down, just as it had since the beginning. His eyes virtually glowed from the unremitting emotions within - and true joy was not yet one of them. 

Not until he saw her. 

In the streets, citizens lined the whole travel route, often several bodies deep. Their excitement surged when the sirens finally reached them; when the first police vehicles appeared, their voices rose in unison. Motorcycles, squad cars, more cycles, SUVs... all flashing, all blaring... a longer procession than was usually granted to the President himself. The security forces were taking no chances of anything happening _this_ time, and the spectators rejoiced one and all at this show of strength dedicated to safeguarding a national treasure. 

Then the limousine itself hove into view, and the cheers became a roar. No flapping flags with the Stars and Stripes and the Presidential Seal adorned its hood, but there could be no possible doubt as to whom it ferried. No second identical limo shadowed it as a precaution, like there always must be when the Chief Executive is present, which meant that everyone knew exactly where to direct their attention. And they did - they virtually pummeled its armored construction with the sheer volume of their enthusiasm. 

The late afternoon sun blazed down, as though celebrating right along with them. 

Inside the limo, Abbey occupied the rear seat just like she always did. However, the strain could be seen if one looked very closely. She kept her hands clasped in her lap and held herself very still, fighting the memories that were growing more uncomfortable and harder to ignore with each passing minute. 

The _last_ time she'd been in such a situation... 

There was no conceivable reason for concern. She knew personally every other person in this vehicle with her. She knew that the security around her had been increased to an unprecedented level; the police and the Secret Service utterly refused to risk any semblance of a repeat performance. She knew also that in mere minutes, she would be home. With her friends and family, inside the safest house in the country. 

Somehow, all of this logic, all of these certainties, could not quite control the specter of fear that nagged despite her best efforts. It had become a part of her. 

Seated opposite, Colleen Reilly was watching her _very_ closely. As a fellow victim, she understood the sensation of being haunted. As a victim whose experience had been rather less traumatic, she could reason it out better. 

She half-twisted towards the two men up front. "Boys - let's slow down a bit. And kill all the sirens you can." 

Abbey's head moved towards her in frank surprise. 

Ricco Delpero glanced back, and grinned. "Of course." He spoke to his wrist: "All units, this is Chariot. Reduce speed, quiet running." 

Within moments, every other vehicle in this parade had matched Todd Bourque's more relaxed pace, and the constant wailing that penetrated even through bulletproof glass dropped to a much more tolerable level. It didn't cease entirely - it couldn't. But the streets had already been cleared; no one needed advance warning to get out of their way. No, the sirens were more of a herald; fewer of them would serve the purpose just as well. 

It was probably as much gratitude for her protectors' consideration as relief that helped Abbey shed the worst of her nervousness. She released a long breath, and smiled at the woman facing her. 

"Wow. You guys are human after all." Both humor and deep thankfulness filled her tone. 

Colleen shifted self-consciously. "Please don't let it get out, ma'am. We're supposed to terrify our enemies, you know." 

"Right. I'll try not to exploit this secret weakness _too_ often." 

Abbey said no more, reading her closest bodyguard's determination to defend her from everything, including her own fears, but not wanting to embarrass Reilly even further by praising such thoughtfulness. Instead she turned back to the world outside... a world she'd seen nothing of for what felt like a large slice of eternity. 

Everywhere she looked, people packed the curbs. They waved, they cheered, they jumped up and down as though hoping to attract her attention. The motorcade's lesser speed, far less than what practical and security reasons normally dictated, projected a stately atmosphere, elegant and proud and unrushed, giving everyone that much more time to see her pass. 

She didn't wave back; they couldn't actually see her through the smoked windows. Amazingly, such a detail didn't seem to matter to anyone out there. 

"How did they all find out so quickly?" she wondered aloud. 

Colleen shrugged. "I think it was over the networks pretty fast, ma'am. I don't suppose anyone had time to run off a special edition, but the TV and radio stations would've jumped at once. Besides, we're taking the most obvious route from the hospital to the White House... and I think the cleared streets are a bit of a giveaway." 

This observation sounded suspiciously nonchalant. Abbey shook her head, feeling more than a little embarrassed herself. Ever since her rescue, everyone around her either made sure they weren't bothering her or else went far out of their way to show how much they liked her. She wasn't certain just yet how to handle this new brand of notoriety, so different from what she'd be subjected to for years, and mind-boggling in the bargain. 

As they drew nearer to their destination, the crowds grew even thicker. The First Lady had had to acclimatize to such attention long ago... but the sheer quantity today bewildered her. 

Something else gradually registered. She peered a bit closer at the sea of faces on either side. "Curious - I haven't seen that many flags." 

Reilly took a few moments to watch as well. There were profuse hands, hats and handkerchiefs flying, but few American flags by proportion. "Huh. That does seem odd." She sat back, studiously casual. "I guess most of them just don't see this as one more excuse for patriotism." 

From the limo's front seat, one of the men choked down what had to have been a laugh. 

Abbey frowned, considering what this could mean... and slowly, her expression changed. The people hadn't come out for "just" the First Lady of the United States. They didn't want to see her public image and her famous face. They wanted to see _her_ \- as _herself_. 

When she could find words again, she could barely find volume. "You know, I think that's the greatest compliment of all." 

When the first hint of sirens reached those gathered outside the White House, every head turned. The stir, the exhilaration, skyrocketed. The public surged back and forth as though literally dancing in place. The Press Corps swung their equipment around. The group from Congress straightened. The staff members on the steps stiffened to attention. 

By now Ellie and Zoey couldn't keep still; they gripped each other's arms as though they needed to hold each other earthbound. 

Jed Bartlet barely shifted. Even before these masses, in a very real sense he was alone. He just drew himself up a bit more, still grim and unsmiling. He refused to release the last of his abiding fear, or drop his desperate self-control, until he beheld the final proof with his own eyes. If he did allow his heart to believe, and then somehow this all fell through... It would be the reverse of his nightmare, where reality hadn't been as bad. It would kill him for sure. 

The Secret Service rescued her, the hospital treated her, his daughters spoke to her... but he himself would not, _could_ not let go. Not yet... 

Over the trees up ahead, Abbey caught her first glimpse of the White House. Her throat constricted. She remembered so clearly her _last_ glimpse of that historic, beautiful building, and all the despair she'd experienced as violence and terror bore her away from her sanctuary. Now, at last, she was coming _home_. 

The first pair of escorting cycles rolled into view from the west, red lights swirling in all directions despite the brilliant sunshine. Suddenly everyone forgot all about the President and everything else. 

The motorcade cruised past the exit gate, the length of iron-wrought fence fronting Pennsylvania Avenue, and the main entrance gate as well; only the limo would turn into that guarded driveway. The vehicles kept coming, one after another, impressive, dignified and endless. Would the limo itself _ever_ appear? This was worse than the Santa Claus Parade. 

_There!_ Its polished black sleekness rounded the corner at last. _She's here!_

Whether people stood inside the fence or outside, at the foot of the stairs or on top, their thoughts were all the same. 

The most bulletproof glass in the world could not muffle the new explosion of welcoming cries. The heavy tint couldn't filter out the unending ocean of pandemonium on one side... and on the other, one of the most enduring symbols of America. _So close_. 

And waiting inside... family. Friends. 

Colleen gauged their arrival carefully. "Okay, men - creep." 

Abbey jerked out of her semi-trance as the limo slowed to a crawl. "Why?" 

And then she saw. 

And now she understood why they hadn't taken 17th Street as one would expect, why instead they'd detoured along 15th Street and approached from this other direction: so that they could show her _everything_. 

The entire front fence - the bars, the concrete abutment, even the sidewalk - all of them were awash with flowers. Fresh flowers in their thousands, of every shade and every description, from single stalks to elaborate bouquets. Stuffed animals peeked out shyly between the blossoms. Envelopes could be spotted as well, bound or taped in place, containing messages that their writers had offered up as the only way they could contribute. Ribbons covered the iron railings, mostly white - the color of hope and optimism. Balloons bobbed merrily in the breeze. Candles still burned on the pavement where they had been lit in desperation over forty hours ago... now transformed into beacons of joy that their persistent presence had been justified. 

For what seemed like ages, Abbey couldn't even breathe. Her eyes stung. 

"My God..." She had to say something before her feelings completely strangled her. "I... don't... believe this..." 

This was how badly the average American citizen wanted her safe. 

Reilly folded her arms and settled back in perfect satisfaction. 

At long, long last, the main gates swung open, exactly like welcoming arms, the armored guards on either side saluted, and the limo rolled gently onto White House property. The gates closed behind it just as gently, almost as though genuinely apologetic for barring the rest of the world from getting any closer. 

One compensation for this unfortunate inevitability was that the police at once dropped the rope lines. As irresistible as floodwaters before a typhoon, the crowds surged forward to the fence. They didn't disturb the offerings there, but they could see over those offerings and across the lawn to the North Portico... and the limo about to pull up in front of it. 

Just because she was now inside the perimeter didn't mean that Abbey had escaped public attention. She noted in amazement the hundreds of waving White House employees on her left; she saw the gaggle of cameras ahead and to her right. She realized with a start that the bunch nearest to her point of disembarkation was made up of politicians she knew personally. No visiting sovereign had ever received such a welcome, no national hero such a homecoming. 

Then the staircase came into view. She might still be too far away to make out actual faces, but she knew positively whom they had to be. 

And there - she strained to see - that dark figure at the very top - 

It could only be _him_. 

The limo glided smoothly to a stop. Bourque engaged "park"... then he and Delpero both turned to look back. They and Colleen wore the same look of renewed concern. 

Reilly spoke for all three. "Are you all right, ma'am?" 

If anything, Abbey appeared to be even paler now than when she had first arrived at Bethesda. She kept her hands clasped as though afraid they'd shake otherwise. 

The trio of security seemed willing to wait as long as it took for her to _be_ all right. 

No. She'd keep everyone waiting long enough. 

She was _home_. 

She breathed out once... twice... swallowed, and firmly reinstated her self-control. Now, as never before in her life, the public image she'd developed over years in the spotlight provided a form of protection, a sense of duty and strength that would help her get through this wondrously happy yet emotionally frightening moment - get through it to the family beyond. 

"Yes." 

All three agents smiled. 

When Delpero opened his door, a blast of noise rushed in as though someone had just cranked the stereo volume all the way over. These limos were more sound-resistant than most people guessed. Abbey tensed at the almost physical blow, before training and memory worked together to calm her. She'd done this countless times before. She was an old hand at appearing before the public. Besides, this was her home... her _people_. 

That reassuring knowledge chased away the last of the apprehension. 

When Delpero opened _her_ door, she was ready. 

Between when that limo stopped and when that door swung open, there had been a perceptive, expectant drop in volume all round. The great moment everyone here had so longed for - 

Then suddenly there she was: her petite stature visible over the low-slung limo's roof, her dark hair and her near-white attire gleaming in sunshine. She emerged without assistance, with the regal grace that all of America had come to know, with her head high despite all the horrors she'd endured. 

This time the White House staff led the fresh eruption of cheers, cheers mixed with deafening applause. Their First Lady had returned. 

Abbey paused deliberately to look around, to face the lenses of the press, to revolve so that everyone could see her. If all of these people had come solely for that purpose, the least she could do was accommodate them. 

She had grown accustomed to drawing attention. This was no different. That familiarity soothed her nerves. 

To her own surprise, she smiled naturally. This was different. The people had been worried about her. They really _liked_ her! 

She turned back to the stairs - barely in time to meet the attack of the First Daughters. 

Eleanor and Zoey had reached the limit of their endurance. They ran straight down those steps side by side, oblivious of how the cameras would enjoy this... but they did think to slow down for the last couple of strides rather than risk bowling their mother right over. Abandoning all thoughts of decorum in the very same way, she flung out her hands to them. Everyone watching, not just the press, got a priceless snapshot of three jubilant faces before this trio enveloped each other in a tangle of arms and smiles. 

The persistent clamor on all sides pretty much eliminated any chance for conversation, but what would one say at such a supreme moment anyway? Abbey hugged both girls together, then hugged each one separately, then peered closely at each of them again to make _sure_ they were all right, as though _she_ had never been the one in danger. She squeezed their arms, she touched their faces, she kissed their foreheads. They nodded eagerly to her unspoken question, laughed, brushed their eyes dry, brushed their hair aside, and didn't move beyond arm's reach for a single second, as though still barely able to believe she was real, and here, and they had no intention of letting her go ever again. 

Then... this dash of hysteria under control... Abbey started to rotate. Towards the stairs. As though finally remembering someone else, someone also an undeniable part of this family reunion. As though drawn about by a physical pull - or a _psychic_ pull. 

Many of the Press Corps kept snapping away, but some just stood there and cheered like any other spectator. On the other side, the delegation from Congress applauded with a bit more dignity, yet no less feeling. Along both sides of the steps, familiar faces beamed at her and added to the ovation. 

She looked all the way up, and saw him. 

He stood at the very top. He hadn't moved an inch. 

He was smiling. For the first time in two days, he was _really_ smiling. A smile that lit up his entire face, that seemed to make his whole being shine. 

Abbey just stood there, at ground level, and let the last of the worry, the last of the anguish, the very last of the fear leave her. Her smile answered his in full. 

The cheering seemed to fade, and for a long heartbeat the whole world stopped. 

What broke this blissful spell wasn't the crowd or the press, but their children. Ellie and Zoey each moved closer to their mother and gave her a gentle nudge in that direction. Final completion, for _all_ of them, must not be delayed any longer. 

She grasped their hands in hers and thanked them with her eyes. She forced herself to take one more look around where she stood. She raised an arm in thanks to the numberless shouting, waving crowds on the lawn and on the street. She nodded to all three members of her detail, who had exited the limo virtually unnoticed and moved a few paces aside, out of the public's way. And then she set her sights on those stairs. 

All at once, that ascent looked incredibly like a wedding arch... 

Another analogy would be like multiple layers of her heart, each step progressing deeper and deeper, finally to culminate in the soul itself. 

At the foot, on her left, the Senior Correspondent stood in the van of his fellow reporters. Ignoring the protruding lenses, Abbey's gaze rested on him specifically, fondly; his wide grin somehow grew even wider. 

At the foot, on her right, the Vice President stood in the van of his fellow politicians. Abbey smiled to him as well; he inclined his head as though to royalty. 

Behind and beside him, old friends from before her White House days voiced their own welcome. Abbey looked at each, basking in the knowledge that, no matter how cutthroat American federal politics might get, true friendship could still pull people together. 

On the stairs, her honor guard awaited. They no longer contributed to the general mayhem, as though they truly thought themselves to be soldiers on parade... or as though they felt so utterly gripped by the moment that they just couldn't move. 

Slowly, she started to climb. Each step taking her closer to a final wholeness. 

On her left, Donna and Nancy were unabashedly tearful. Charlie's eyes shone in his dark face, and his gentle grin didn't downplay the threefold relief he now knew. 

On her right, Ainsley looked awed to be so close, and so much a part of this. Mallory held both hands over her heart as though convinced that she couldn't take much more of this sheer happiness. Jenny mirrored her pose to only a slightly lesser degree. 

Abbey had an astonished smile for the O'Briens. She could hardly believe they were here - but of course, what could be more fitting, and who more deserving? She almost went right over to them... but not just yet. Not until after she'd been _completed_. 

On her left, Sam visibly burned with the desire to whoop and turn cartwheels; somehow he restrained himself. CJ was fighting her own tears, relieved no end to see her greatest, personal, experience-founded terror demolished at last. Toby had finally permitted his own reserved smile, something he so rarely did that this _had_ to be a very special event. Josh's smile was so big he looked goofier than ever. 

These people had seen her husband through the most vicious nightmare conceivable. Without them, he never would have pulled through. Because of them, Abbey had been given a _reason_ to pull through as well. 

On her right, the four members of her own staff looked no less overjoyed. She had worked with them for years; she knew them all, and knew them rather well... and they had come to know her in turn. They were saluting more than an employer, a public figure, a national celebrity - they were here for a friend. 

On her left, Leo had finally released the full-faced grin that few people could charm out of him. He'd known her longer than any other person present... save one. And right now, as he did over three decades past, he stood as witness to their joining. 

On her right, a distinct gap in the ranks reminded her of the one presence she missed. Still, the Mayes would be watching the TV broadcast for certain. That empty spot served as a tribute to the woman who had shared in Abbey's danger, and had saved Abbey's life. 

Together, these people who meant so much to her, who cared so much for her, stood and watched her pass, all of them still and silent, yet radiating the purest delight. 

At the top... directly before her... drawing her entire self closer... 

This had not been rehearsed, but it seemed so _right_. 

Abbey felt, and looked, much the same way she had thirty-four years ago: as a bride walking down (or up) the aisle to her groom. Her light-colored outfit was close enough to white to gather the sunbeams and make everyone think of both marriage and resurrection. Her two daughters followed a few steps behind, _not_ like bridesmaids, yet completing the procession. 

Jed waited. His amazingly bright blue eyes never left her. Just as the sunlight seemed to descend upon her in blessing, it also seemed to pour into him and then stream outward through his smile as though such intensity of emotion could not be contained any longer. As though it could wash away the anguish, the terror, even the memory of ever having been parted. 

Only two more steps to go. She couldn't see anyone else now, not even beside her. She was _almost there_. 

A positively reverent hush settled over the entire scene; this time no one imagined it. You could almost hear the strains of the Pachabel Canon wafting through the early summer air. You could almost smell the fragrance of the Rose Garden - even though it lay on the other side of the House. The whole nation watched with pounding pulse and bated breath. 

One more step... and now, at last, Jed moved. Slowly, almost ceremoniously, or as if at last he couldn't restrain himself for one more instant, he removed his hands from his pockets and extended them down to her. 

Almost trembling, Abbey reached her hands upward to him. 

Their fingers touched - slid together - clasped - 

And they were _one_ again. Their hearts again beating in time with each other. 

_What God has joined, let no one tear asunder!_

After a slight, glorious pause that could have lasted half a lifetime for both of them, Jed stepped back and sideways, lifting his wife up onto the landing with him. They stood on the same level, higher than anyone else, at right angles to the crowd, in full view. They stood face to face, their eyes saying far more than either could hope to express with clumsy words, much less what they'd choose to say in public. They just held each other's hands as though nothing would ever part them again. 

Both had genuinely felt what the other endured through all of this. Both had faced their very worst demons, and had grown stronger as a result. They had proven their great spiritual strength to themselves, to each other and to the entire world. Now, in immeasurable, _personal_ victory, they were together once more. 

Nothing else could possibly matter. 

In the shivering quiet, Jed spoke first. Softly, meltingly. "You're home." 

As if he thought she had to hear the actual words. As if he had to _say_ those words, hear this simple statement out loud, before he could trust in its veracity, before it could be real for either of them. 

He had been here the whole time, waiting for her, so afraid that he would never see her again. Now, almost officially, he welcomed her back into his home... and into his soul. Where she undoubtedly belonged. 

Abbey reacted in much the same way. Somehow, in the back of her mind, she must have remembered that they weren't actually alone. Now, with the same light touch of formality - again, so like their wedding day that she felt a chill - she moved one step closer. 

Jed's thoughts were in perfect synch. He closed the remaining space. Their heads leaned forward. Their eyes closed. Their lips contacted. 

The loudest cheer by far erupted as the spectators went wild. Everyone applauded like crazy and many wiped away tears that could no longer be withheld. This sight finally closed the book on the entire kidnapping ordeal for them all, and they couldn't be more thrilled - not so much for their own convenience and sense of stability, as for the sake of the man and woman before them now. 

Speaking of whom, they broke off after only a second or two, that gentle kiss far too brief yet setting the seal on their two halves coming together to reassemble the whole. 

There were still a few things to do. They smiled at each other, silently promised each other just a bit more time for duty before they could put it all behind and be themselves. Then they turned, their four hands still locked, and faced the world. Together. 

Spread out in a fantastic panorama below were their closest colleagues, who fought for them and with them... their political associates, occasionally seen as virtual rivals... members of the press, far too often seen as virtual enemies... the army of behind-the-scenes staff, without which the White House could not hope to function... the populous of the nation, without which no Presidency would exist... and the community of the human race, to which every single person here belonged. All with faces upturned, smiles bright, hands clapping, cheers echoing as they celebrated their mutually regained unity. 

_This_ reminded many witnesses of the Inauguration. They screamed themselves hoarse as the restored First Couple - never completely letting go of each other - gestured their daughters over, and all four waved back in overspilling gratefulness for the support heaped upon them all by their fellow citizens. And when the President tucked the First Lady's arm in his, and the four Bartlets turned to enter the White House, and the two rows of senior staffers trooped up in their wake, and the few necessary Secret Service agents followed them, and the politicians and the press both prepared to depart on their own... the remaining employees and most of the public just stayed, even though there was nothing else to see. They asked no more than to be here, to fully soak up the wonder of what they'd just shared, to capture the memory for all time, and to assure themselves that life had at long last returned to normal. 

Inside this premier residence in the land, that coveted normalcy would be a little while coming yet. 

Everyone looked to the First Lady for guidance of what they should do next: stay, go, speak, be still... whatever she wanted. 

Abbey had had more than enough of being tiptoed around. She wanted her life - _their lives_ \- reestablished as soon as humanly possible. The _real_ end to all of this was very near. She could put up a tough front, a _proper_ front, for another few minutes. 

She stopped in the middle of the atrium. Everyone accompanying her immediately did the same, and watched nervously... as she adopted a prim attitude and swept her surroundings with a critical eye. 

"Figures. I step out for a couple of days, and look what happens to the House-keeping around here." 

Just about everyone chuckled - as much in relief as in humor. 

Having broken the first layer of ice, she singled out the lone staffer present whom she did not know: a young blond woman at the rear of this gaggle, looking both overawed and out of place. Very gently, Abbey detached herself from her husband, and stepped that way. The twenty-odd bodies parted at once. 

That young blond woman froze solid in what could only be near-terror. 

Abbey extended her hand. "I don't believe we've been introduced. I'm Abigail Bartlet." 

Smiles bloomed on all sides. The President was known to greet people the very same way. Like anyone didn't know whom either of them were, especially around here. 

Rooted to the spot, this unknown employee had to swallow twice. "An honor, ma'am. Uh -" She actually seemed to forget her own name for one second. "Ainsley Hayes." 

"Oh, yes. You're legal counsel." 

Ainsley breathed again, her primary fears unfounded. She must have been expecting "You're the Republican" or some such; it was, after all, the most obvious way to pigeonhole her in this particular locale. 

Abbey eliminated any hint of dismissal, from either partisanship or unfamiliarity. "Thank you for helping us through this, Ainsley." 

That unanticipated kindness, even after everything else, forced this young lawyer to give up on words entirely. 

The First Lady nodded and returned to her family's ranks... then she turned back to the entire gathering. They deserved to be addressed as well. Just for a minute - 

"You can probably imagine how happy I am to be home. Knowing that all of you were here, working towards that goal, really helped me to hang on. You've done a phenomenal job, and I'll never be able to thank you enough. 

"You'll be glad to hear that Lilli Mayes is going to be fine." Abbey paused to permit the wave of low murmurs. "Unfortunately, there were other casualties, and we owe them our grief and our gratitude." A considerate pause. 

"I'm sure you know why all this business came about. Truth be told, I myself was not thrilled with the idea of another campaign. Not because I don't agree with all of you about what quality of leader we have here -" she nudged her husband lightly "- but for health reasons." 

She paused again after that understatement. No one interrupted. Almost none of them had been aware of her direct opposition to re-election. None of them blamed her, though. 

"Right now I'm prepared to admit that my fears may be less well-founded than I ever dared hope. We've all seen what my husband is capable of when the chips are really down. I figure that if he can weather this, he can take just about anything any of _you_ can dish out." 

The murmurs were louder this time, in amusement and full agreement. 

"Besides, there's no way we're going to let our opponents win - not even by default." 

None of her listeners actually cheered, but their swift nods and their wide grins endorsed every last word. 

Throughout this impromptu speech the President stood by, regulated to the background for once, silent, not moving, just staying close. 

Abbey smiled. "So! Back to work, right? I think I've goofed off long enough." 

To a chorus of chuckles, she moved along again, content that she had alleviated any concerns about her own recovery. Everyone fell into step behind. 

At the staircase leading up to the Residence, the staff halted on their own accord. They'd been lucky enough to be allowed inside the House early; they would not intrude any further. 

"CJ." 

The Press Secretary started at being suddenly singled out. This time Abbey went right up to her. 

"Remember our discussions last December?" Her voice was soft, yet strong. Her tall friend nodded. "I want you to know that what you shared with me then went a long way towards getting me through this now." 

She would not be any more specific in this setting, for both their sakes - but from the look on CJ's face the message had been received in full. These two women held each other's hands so hard they shook. 

Then, struggling to preserve her fast-dying self-control, Abbey hugged Mallory and Jenny. "I'll see you later," was all she said... all she had to say. All she _could_ say. 

Leo, the oldest and dearest friend, came last. "Thank you," Abbey whispered. She never doubted his pivotal role in holding Jed together. 

Finally she drew away, and mounted the first step. Then she just had to turn once more. These beloved, upturned faces were fastened on her, projecting a tremendous joy for her return... and for her enduring strength under the greatest adversity. 

The only movement among them was Leo shifting sideways to stand beside his daughter and his ex-wife, in the most natural way imaginable. He didn't actually look at them, nor they at him... yet it almost seemed as though this trial - and triumph - had also helped to reunite the long-sundered McGarrys as well. 

Abbey met every pair of eyes. In silence, she thanked them all. 

Then, at last, the First Family took their leave of their friends and started up the steps to their long-denied privacy. Only two Secret Service agents followed - aside from a wave of good wishes. 

In the upstairs corridor, Abbey turned to her daughters. "All right, now; I want the inside story. How are you two, _really_?" 

"We're _fine_ , Mom," Zoey insisted. "We were stuck here the whole time, don't forget. What place could be safer?" 

"This is one time I've blessed the security, I can tell you." The light note faded. "I knew, of course, that I could count on you to take good care of each other... and of your father." 

That made both girls giggle. 

Their mother frowned. "What?" 

Eleanor adopted a look of innocence that didn't quite come off. "Well, we did our best. Does slipping him a mickey qualify?" 

Abbey solidified in disbelief, making both sisters laugh even harder. She threw a glance at her silent husband, whose constant smile did not dim, whose peaceful attitude did not challenge that incredible claim. 

Ron and Colleen, the last non-family members still present, discretely to one side, traded glances of almost equal surprise. 

A physician's methodical mind warred with the feelings of a wife and parent. "Oh, I can't wait to hear this." 

Quiet fell. Abbey had reached another stage, another crossroads in her journey from the front door, where she had been restored to her full public self. First the general populous had been left behind. Then the staff had fallen back. Now, on this landing, her daughters' rooms were on the left, and hers to the right. 

The quiet grew awkward. Neither girl wanted to let go, nor did their mother. Their father made no move, either. Still... 

_One_ reunion had yet to take place: the dearest of all. 

Zoey shifted first. "Go on, you guys." 

Abbey hesitated - she certainly appreciated the selfless offer, but she didn't want to be parted from her babies so soon. "You're sure?" 

"Oh, we'll be around," Ellie pointed out helpfully. 

The President and the First Lady eyed each other, their features giving nothing away. 

"Okay. Thanks." Abbey hugged both girls once more, just for the delirious happiness of it. 

Jed seconded this sentiment with a slow, articulate nod. Then he tucked his wife's arm in his again, and gently drew her away. 

Their daughters stood together, side by side, and allowed themselves to be left behind like everyone else. Neither of them had any complaint. 

There was only one door left... and one final set of witnesses. 

At that door, Abbey stopped and about-faced yet again. For the last time - 

"I think, Colleen, that I'll be thanking you for a long time to come." 

Reilly tried to maintain her professional composure, without success. "Don't you threaten _me_ , ma'am." 

Both Bartlets grinned. 

"As for _you_ , Ron..." Abbey looked up at her husband's personal bodyguard, and just shook her head. "You took great care of him. And I know it wasn't easy." 

If her husband pretended to look offended, no one else noticed. However, they all noticed the first smile that anyone could ever remember seeing on the face of the fearsome security coordinator. "It was my pleasure, ma'am." 

"Yes, I'm sure it was." From her tone she didn't believe it for a moment. 

The President did not comment aloud, although his laughing eyes clearly agreed. 

Then he opened that last door, holding it for his wife to precede him. 

These last followers stood still and watched them step out of sight. 

The door closed on the whole world. 

_And then there were two._

Four steps in, Abbey halted in her tracks at the click of the latch. 

For an immeasurable interval she held very still. Then, carefully, she breathed out. And, slowly, she turned. 

Jed stood with his back against that closed door. Watching her. 

After endless worry, endless fear, endless pain, and then endless delay, they were alone. 

They were _together_. 

Here they needed no proper image, no cautious reserve, no firm public face. Here was the gleam of true love released in full strength: his love for her, her love for him. Here were the tears neither had dared let show before. Here, _now_ , they could express precisely what they felt. 

Abbey started to break first. A sob rising in her throat, she moved forward. Blinking rapidly, Jed met her halfway. Their very souls embraced, as they held each other so hard that it felt like their hearts would never be physically parted again. 


End file.
